I.

The whistling unbelievers have passed this way. They work for the most private industry,
are recognized by few. Their cause: to mark
like television does, its lurid heroes
turn to each other in their seats,
respond like a poor script.
They will drop by
with acres of advice and good things
and a frail questionnaire with multiple-choice                                  answers.
They’re thoughtful.

II.

In love with his former self, the clone is dramatic, popular, his sandy tears have moved a whole row
to sway like a phalanx. He’ll help you out, modestly, his face pinned like a badge on the future.
His head’s ointment belongs to everybody like free              speech.
It helps if you lie.

III.

The man’s slick temporary lying truce
stands outside. You’re glassed-in like a phone,
your paranoia standing behind you and pointing
its kind obliteration like a drug. When you come down,
you can’t breathe, force-fed by a younger sister.
Here, the martian life swells in our ration of air
like zeroes.

First published in Overland 79—1980