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now the sun rises into the corn
and the wheat into the sky
now the patience of the village
inside of the television homes
with fires lit
wavers quiet under the great horizon
like melons in winter
watching for the first frost
or the second:

the gravity of the cars:
now they are saints
Saint Oldsmobile
and Saint Buick
lofty and fragmentary names under the Great Seal of Heaven
their drivers like the mannikins of German buildings
striking the anvil of time:

I am alone on a beach of rocks
Not named yet
Somewhere close a lighthouse is singing in my dreams
And the lumbermen are drinking elderberry beer under the fog.

The light from the city is a fine haze.
The women are drunk from too much work:
washing tables like the servants of Rome
counting the months until their debt is paid

The bright women of the dark city are anvils too
Shimmering with dust
Their fury is in their teeth
wolves caught and caged
but still beautiful

Some flood is coming
Quick over the brown land
And I am running to the car
where my mother is waiting

All the people have left their tents behind
And we grin into the rain
Like rocks in the avalanche
Rolling faster and faster into the grey light


Robin Wyatt Dunn was born in Wyoming in 1979. You can read more of his work at

© 2020, Robin Wyatt Dunn

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