If I were the last man left on Mars
I would consult the Buddha
one final time
I’d meta-regulate my breathing
adjust the supply wires
and fuse my eyelids shut
I’d visualize that woman from Earth
with fuzzy narcotic-induced memory:
There would be red lotus petals
cascading down from clear waves
and a moon cut sharply from the sky
We’d be tucked in seaweed
and caked in black sand
I’d leave her to collect driftwood
and smoke the dunes in a dense puff
while waiting for the Earth to expire
