by Aidan Andrew Dun



Moving, a slow
metal insect, clicking
there is a harvester
crossing our cities.

At night it works
steadily cutting wide
paths through precincts
surprised houses

Lifting bodies like
heavy heads of corn
flicking them skyward
into another dimension

Fertile with memories
suggestions of futurity
apocalyptic noise
unfathomable music

A great dark space
brimming with dreamers
who find themselves cut-off
from the field of life

People who were eating
supper, then fell asleep
to be strangely reborn
from withering sunlight.

The old boy who drives
this slow night-engine
is three-fourths drunk
on aromas of mowing:

Honest revelations of
disturbed hearts
golden dust of bodies
tumbling in space.

He thinks of his wife
as he flattens little towns
dreams he could still
engender in her his child.