by Aidan Andrew Dun


Suntanned instruments
that circled Europe
on summer roads
yesterday, sounding truly
into hideous corners of
tubercular cities
from the Steppes
down to the Ardennes
now hang high above
us, smoke-brown
bronzed and sunburned
like the old-time
troubadours themselves
removed from the world
completely out-of-reach
dead and gone to heaven
in a lute-shaped boat.