Mars

Pale, peach and pear hues at dawn,
Seem to creep up the black cliff.

It’s all down to where you stand
And what kind of eyes you have,

What sort of brain. The light waves
Aren’t your dance. They’re their own time.

Dawns, you know, are where you are,
As are noons and nights. You are

One mote in the sun’s eye. Wait.
What kind of eye? There’s no eye.