Vida en marte. Tracy K. Smith

drums.

      Pots of honey pilfered from a tomb. Books

      Recounting the wars, maps of fizzled stars.

      In the south wing, there’s a small room

      Where a living man sits on display. Ask,

      And he’ll describe the old beliefs. If you

      Laugh, he’ll lower his head to his hands

      And sigh. When he dies, they’ll replace him

      With a video looping on ad infinitum.

      Special installations come and go. “Love”

      Was up for a season, followed by “Illness,”

      Concepts difficult to grasp. The last thing you see

      (After a mirror—someone’s idea of a joke?)

      Is an image of the old planet taken from space.

      Outside, vendors hawk t-shirts, three for eight.