riding the hills of Hellas I think of
. The landscape rich with bright
rock parting soil old pines older
mountains. That alphabet’s sounds
and symbols that with a little practice

our tour guide’s tense wanders—
Persephone is going to be taken
the world has been punished
Xerxes again is moving on Athens
Odysseus will have a clever idea

loud and sure sun on white stone
the temple of Zeus here
and in ruins

Recovered Notes on the New Planet

the sky moves so fast a fragrance like marshmallow


what I thought a purple crystal dissolved in morning dew


evidence of the old civilization if the light is just right on the microscope slide


meters into the crevasse wrongly assumed it was scree


fields like maple syrup over a fresh argument


a language I’ve yet to master sneaks into my notes


returning to a previous marker an acrid smell sunken ground


stuck inside the tent autocorrecting hail


rivers like a laughing bandage to forget the insults of rock


the way forward often loops around in sharpened midday rain


what I wrote on a rock ran away


this mountain like melted gnomes who to name it after


a quiet spot by the river eaten by these mineral teeth


the silicavore’s thought projections jostle the rover’s gyro


a fine web like cotton candy spreads toward the sea by evening


I think there are dogs in the clouds


a dry brown leaf and voices in the wind almost enough like home