The gleaners have come and and gone. Cut stems
in the field split under our steps and we are satisfied
 
with such noise—good land yielded to graveyard
when we gave up our lucid dreams. Sleep is a fallow
 
investment at best, the shallow way of changing colour,
but we thrash in the depths because we think waking
 
is an upward motion. We sweat heartbeats no matter
how many farmers tell us: the final spasm
 
before drowning is a hypnic twitch, a collective
larynx, straining to sing the whole damn song.