Last night I caught you sleepwalking again:
you stumbled to the hallway and curled
your toes against the hardwood,
spun like the skipping track of a
cross-eyed orbit. I had forgotten
what you look like off-balance.
Your nightmares only ring true in retrospect,
if you remember the falling. But last night
I watched you lurch and halt, passionless,
felt the hallway shrink. Like dissuading a child,
I wrapped my fingers around yours as you reached
for the doorknob. Your palm was warm,
creased from clutching blankets,
as if you fell asleep strangling sheep.
Last night I caught you standing barefoot
in a pile of newspapers, walked you
back to bed and let the ink settle
into Egyptian cotton. It reminded me
of this dream I have, where I constantly
rearrange the furniture and you never notice,
where I unscrew the light-bulbs and the dark
barricades the door. Where you smile, awake,
and you mean me.