A Martian Sends a Second Postcard Home

Humans have windows with shutters and drapes;

Hinged spheres of glossed glass tinted many colours. 

Swimming in pools, a pair of pupils study,

Working hard to understand the lunette’s reflection. 

Below, a beak with boreholes:

Lined with bushy weeded threads, 

At times it sighs, crinkles and scrunches

And its frosted tip turns rosy in the cold. 

Just beneath, an army of wiry tendrils unfurl,

Topping a fleshy bank which locks shut a room:

This chamber is warm and moist, its writhing

Host always on duty.

Both entrance and exit,

It disappears food, shaping it to sound.