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I dreamt up a cottage of Mars brick
with window-potted foreign algae.
Romantic spacesuit hops through
canyons probably inhabited
with purple tri-faced terrestrials
[laser-laws were erected for human safety].
Sunless weeks with constant
complaints of my attempt
to find a way to make lunar-
power work as electric and water
(and my teche-mind will... i-in ti-ime).
In the middle of pumping
factory-made gas inside,
I hear you whisper;

“Astroturf is fake grass, baby.”