Wanderer

I met Mars sprawled in the fields,

his dark skin glistening with dust,

the sunflowers curled around him as he lay.

He told me he wasn’t a good farmer

in Cordoba, where he wished storms

to last centuries for him.

I took him by his talcum hands

and touched his iron tattoos,

feeling the divots of his spine and skin.

With his magnesium eyes crinkled,

we walked west.