Sleep, Sirens, and Sheep

When I wake I usually break the silence
by reaching shaky fingers out to tug
noir calamities back into my body

after a night of dreaming.

November hisses in my ear,
a game without rules, I find
myself unstructured;

always undefined.

A boy, youthful, bays
at the afternoon with his
sheep dog.

Summery shadows become
lavish, and illusive,

but the herd is always willing
to stray.