the ark

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.