Mare Erythraeum

There is a stain, not quite like a face
On the Rorschach linoleum
Where your thoughts fell, almost
Blue and tinging red, the way ink thins
Efflorescing on the surface
To seesaw evening colours, the floor
A new, scattershot horizon
Worms and satellites passing
Before, indelibly, sinking in

From the other room
The cat squall of tv
As if drawn curtains 
The invading green of northern lights
Could disarm a necessary distraction

They made an X-ray of my father’s jaw
To see if that’s where the anger lay
A snowy landscape, but in reverse
A summer blue gleam to the night’s 
Precise and errant sophistry
Trees gone to half-mossed stumps
Knowing, therefore, that this way must be south
An owl’s hard hunting screech
Beyond mouse bones, on the horizon
In the harsh and overbearing light
The dome of St Peter’s 

There is a window when we are close to Mars
Looming in the southern sky
With that machining aspect
Of our well known trajectories
While descending robots roar 
At familiar landscapes
Made of a sudden, strange
Marked in red, precisely dotted lines
Image of Mare Erythraeum (adapted) courtesy of Google Mars.

Jesus on Mars

Beds are narrower on TV
 People talk face to face
 Unafraid of halitosis 
 Or other unfortunate intimacies
 We populate our borrowed homes
 With arbitrary things 
 To imbue ourselves with personality
 And life’s outré laugh-track semblances 
 Wearing masks to unpretend 
 How we see familiar faces
 In the shapes of cups and clouds
 But just these peculiar vacancies 
 Where strangeness starts
 From your face
 An ageless breath has carved
 Another empty planet