Trace a path across the cracked, dry ocean bed
scuttled parts mechanical sequestered in shifting dunes
picked up by magnetic resonance and dug out
for the bits and pixels buried within
a dead letter box

You scan historical flickering
images of teeter-toddling first steps built up
from adversity, out of ignorance, rocket-propelled
a ziggurat from whose summit the curious, unfettered
dreamers reached for the rust-red wanderer
and press still unanswered questions
into your space-gloved hands

The wind kicks up clouds of red dust
a grit of Martian regolith scores your visor
and you wish that you too could see this thing
through to the end, and clearly


WC Roberts lives in a mobile home up on Bixby Hill, on land that was once the county dump. The only window looks out on a ragged scarecrow standing in a field of straw and dressed in WC’s own discarded clothes. WC dreams of the desert, of finally getting his first television set, and of ravens. Above all, he writes, and has had poems published in Strange Horizons, Apex, Space & Time Magazine, Mindflights, Aoife’s Kiss, Scifaikuest, Star*Line, and others.
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