Am I.Weird of shadeAnd doomfire face:All thy sensesCry to myMourning mysteriesWhich yesterdayWere commonplace.
We sit at Sunday breakfastAnd I smell the dust of Carthage.It drowns the spangOf our automatic toaster.
That strange woman across from meSmiles, butters two slices.Her smile arouses a multitude in me!Her smile . . .Frightens us.
For the full text of "Carthage: Reflections of a Martian" and the editor’s introduction to it from Mars, We Love You: Tales of Mars, Men and Martians, check out CaveofBirds.com, a website devoted to Frank Herbert.
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