"The Ark", excerpted here, was published
in Contemporary Verse 2, vol. 33, no. 3.
Sleep is not farmland. It has no boundary. Sleep
is wind passing through and round houses and barns,
passing round and over things in formation and form
does not matter, nothing but sleep and dreaming, nothing,
just wind, sleep and this dream, blurred deer in field
at side of road. Sleep is wind, passing over deer and field,
wind-blurred windshield, your hands release the wheel
and the van drifts towards the horizon where land, softened
by blue dusk, becomes the sea.