These red cliffs of Mars fill our telescope’s
lens like streams of claret flowing over
pewter. Surely these deep-crimson cords, ropes
like arteries from some passionate heart,
must rise from volcanoes buried beneath
this cap’s metallic crust of water-ice—
surface rich as satin fabric bequeathed
by Shakespeare’s queen. How your enamored eyes
take in this scene remind me of the night
I surprised you with that Brittania-
metal vase of polyanthas. The sight
of their coral petals brought mania:
lovemaking beneath our grand piano,
releasing our own buried volcanoes.
Roger Armbrust
October 5, 2008
