At sunset as the dusk modulates
into shadows and pale
edges and the darker blue
at the eastern horizon intensifies
(like a rumour, like a plague)
the question arises
is there life on Mars?

but the trees blossom
just the same
the card-players         play
comme d'habitude

with the insistent rhythms of Bowie's
'Life on Mars'

always-already enough
as Bart Simpson might say

these lines come to me
in the night
endless and contradictory
like a dream of Guantanamo Bay
pursued and never finished

we had better get this done

before lights out