The Sleeping Land
The Tartars called it Sebiyr.
Wraiths fly at your face in the moonlight.
Pull the blind, nest in the whoosh and thrum. Lose ground.
You are being shipped backwards, to Moscow, to Atlantic,
flimsy, diving the void like a feather, now snatched
by a woman in booted black who bolts through thickets
cramming you headfirst down into her long bag,
jolting old dreams out of their hidey-holes.