[With my spittle, with my cipher]
With my spittle, with my cipher I roam the Martian surface. I’m a rogue, alone, a venial rover. I tap a vein. Wind lifts, rides, wrecks nothing. Threshers lie down tangled in their tresses, trestles, mattocks, manglers, cloaks, felts, fustians, reapers, gleaners, because it’s Fall. The season of decay. The sleepers make room in the grave. In my tread, I tote a grain, a mite, contaminants to subdivide and eat this fascia clean of life and featureless for ever. Deep Trench, abide. As earthly glaciers lie down in still waters of erasure.