When clouds accumulate, the dome turns gray.

Never enough water, though. Or sound. Or fun.

An old flag and some yellow rocks your bouquet.

Our far sides are so cratered anyway

each impact only obliterates an old one.

When clouds accumulate, the dome turns gray.

You point to our radioactive elements, the way

we're always falling toward each other and the sun.

A flag and those yellow rocks your only bouquet.

Asymmetric hemispheres. That's us, you say.

I roll a layer of powder on my face. We're never done.

The clouds accumulating and dome turning gray

make the native plants seem picturesque looking for prey

with their cherry-coloured tendrils, their paralyzing blossoms, the way

they run past your stupid flag and yellow rocks. Your dismay

over the fine dust covering your breath mask that eats away

at the dome. I wish we'd never come here. You hide your gun.

An old flag and some yellow rocks your bouquet.

When clouds accumulate, the dome turns gray.