Mist is when the sky is tired of flight
And rests its soft machine on the ground:
Then the world is dim and bookish
Like engravings under tissue paper
Rain is when the earth is television
It has the properites of making colours darker
Model T is a room with the lock inside --
A key is turned to free the world
For movement, so quick there is a film
To watch for anything missed
But time is tied to the wrist
Or kept in a box, ticking with impatience
In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps
That snores when you pick it up

If the ghost cries, they carry it
To their lips and soothe it to sleep

With sounds. And yet, they wake it up
Deliberately, by tickling with a finger
Only the young are allowed to suffer
Openly. Adults go to a punishment room
With water but nothing to eat
Some say its a baby, some say it’s a telephone…. 
 you be the judge
A Martian Sends a Postcard Home