[With my spit­tle, with my ci­pher]

The Iowa Review - - MARTHA EVANS -

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.

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