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