Moss carpet coherent over

a worldwide swamp sea,

carmine, olive, blood.

Rare mountains, stepped back

like pipe organs amid an infinite crowd

or abrupt as trucks.

A few are hot-water volcanoes.

Gut-coloured vast tube life-forms

sup their overflow as it streams down.

Breathable air. No night.

No atmospheric weather.

The ground sways as you walk

but you can sleep dry on it

and slice the upper rind like felt

to fold back and get some darkness.

You can eat the knobby vegetal layer

the whole pelt floats on.

It tastes like mushrooms, or bok choy.

Planet Monroe. Moine rua, red bog

as we have named it. Inconvenient, benign,

useless for forced landings.