So, to the race to Mars!
(Bypassing our parenthetical
and dark side of the moon.)
In five minutes, you and I
will forget the ghostly cold on Mars,
as another one of our trillion (parenthetical) memories
no different than
Sunday paper’s the last page
lying parenthetically on the couch.
A question grasps me (nevertheless),
is not about life on ancient Mars
or fossils under dry-ice snow.
What about our lives—are we parenthetical?
The question is (not) parenthetical.