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.