Metal Fred wakes to a day that might be yesterday,
reaches for a needle, enjoys his brief heaven.
Somewhere up above, moon-flights shuttle
endlessly back and forth.
Space is a misnomer now.
In the thirsty perma-dew of Fred’s moon
there are bones,
turquoise and blue veins; a skewed view
of that trampled planet.
His high is lowering.
Now the moon’s iron light
floods the reds and greens and whites
of earth’s acres, its plastic litter;
draws ragwort shadows on abandoned fields.
Silhouettes rear from a shallow pool:
a military helmet,
a tilted block of fridge,
the lacy scallops of a gate.
In rotting housing, behind his night time door,
Metal Fred, sober in his squalor,
tongues up a flow of something silver.
Strange new birds circle his billet’s uneven bricks.
Soon the rasp of pale ravens
will subpoena his death-angel.