I was descending from the mountains of sleep.

Asleep I had gazed east over a sunny field,

And sat on the running board of an old Model A.

I awoke happy, for I had dreamt of my wife,

And the loneliness hiding in grass and weeds

That lies near a man over thirty, and suddenly enters.

When Joe Sjolie grew tired, he sold his farm,

Even his bachelor rocker, and did not come back.

He left his dog behind in the cob shed.

The dog refused to take food from strangers.

I drove out to that farm when I awoke;

Alone on a hill, sheltered by trees.

The matted grass lay around the house.

When I climbed the porch, the door was open,

Inside were old abandoned books,

And instructions to Norwegian immigrants.