into vapour clouds. it doesn’t get faster

with less or flourish. we ski in private raptures

of snowfall that dematerialises before us.

unresponsive volcanic peaks, laughing at the glide

and atmosphere. traverse postcard views

saying, they bruise while we’re inside the position

of its poles on the planet Mars, the inclination

of its axis, our heads of snow. the remarkable

appearances at the polar regions between

persistence and persistent field where wind rushes

data, weight (what weight there is) in this lack

so water sublimes. how everything slurs into vapour.

stoppered outer layer spacesuit not too loose

or bulky you sweep to the left through continuous

dark until two tiny lit moons of fear and panic

rise in your eyes. we skate over transparent frosted

dry-ice fields into unstable yellow clouds. who cares

if we can never leave? the dust storm passes

as orange snow dematerialises before us with less

flourish in temperatures lower than we have ever known.