Sleep

I am in the body of something,
I know not what.
The clamoring is gone. I see
Peoples' conversations and
They are steady. They are all
The same. There appears to
Be breathing and something
Else. Something I cannot know.
Where am I? Someone is trying
To pass something to me but
I can't notice. Somehow I am
Moving, but not my arms, not
My legs, not my head. I must
Be somewhere. I have passed
inside of something, an articulation
Of a place that remains hidden.
Later I stand in front of the sink.
The weak light looks me out
Across the drive, through the trees,
Where I have been. It doesn't add
Up, that I grow things, that sleep
Is the secret. It is believed by some
That the songs of birds stimulate the
Growth of flowers, of trees. The light
Runs back to me, passing through
The glass, forming my arm, building
My legs. And I hear the first note,
Deeper than memory.