To be the first to play a Martian Hamlet,
To blow red dust off Yorick’s ancient skull,
Exclaim to steadfast Opportunity, 
Over Ophelia drowned in Lowell’s canal—

I dreamed this future vividly enough
It’s a memory. It will not come to pass. 
I am a booster stage, a corner crier
Beckoning groundlings to the Marscrete O.

As I hand you the playbill, look into my eyes
And there will be an ocean uncrossed and a life
Raft empty except its unused flare gun.

Inside this helmet of my skull, I hear rain, 
Though nothing’s fallen for months. It’s only
Dry earth and imaginary tragedies.