At the fringe of sleep,
each impression folding
itself into another
impression, intermittently
brilliant-irrational, each and each and both,
I hear a line of sound
droning above, just south
of Carpenter Road, intensifying
into a throbbing whirr and—
Someone’s up there, stretchered in the sky.
It’s here.
—dying away in the dark
over the fields, the farm country.