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.