What does it mean?
asks one as we stand in the wind
of a gray plain and tilt our faces
toward a crater’s living steam.
Behind us shrubby trees
grow in patches
among the clean white spikes
of the countless dead.
As they crisscross the air
around our knees, grasshoppers
click their yellow wings.
They mean to find each other
and breed in the heat
we mean to stop making.