Sleep encroaches 'round me,
and disparately, I touch tiled land-
a dying bit of brush and tree.
Here the soul lies undigested
the air is cold and wintered.
All remains weighted,
the spirit dreams to gleam.
And I wish the mind could magic,
over the rooftops, over pines
of soldier green, into the eyes of night,
where sound dissolves,
into tiny little particles of light.