The Sleepwalker’s Son

Snow kept falling into empty pots.
I could have used a team of dogs
to pull my bed, a queue of sleepwalkers…
                      Charles Simic

Or elephants or musk ox, strong
sturdy beasts with eyes deep as iron
mines, and a calm bred of endless
days pulling the beds of those who

dream on slippery shores of night.
Sometimes they tumble into painted
scenes: golden lions in a jungle made
of flower stalks and gems, a lollipop

world born from the head of a dying
god. A small boy walks with his father
in a city filled with noise and smoke.
They peer into a small gallery, and there

it is: the desert, a mirage of ships
sailing on shimmering waves
of heat, as if searing light had bathed
their optic nerves. A man has dug

three graves. The bodies wait, wrapped
in linen, and then black wings, shadows
wheeling across a cruel sky, and sand
sweeping to the edges of the world.

From then on the boy will walk at night.
He might climb from his bed, seeking
the comfort of lamplight across the street,
or drill his way into the humid religion

of words. Either way, his sleep will be lost,
a great fall of snow melting into winter sea.

Steve Klepetar

If you have any comments on this poem, Steve Klepetar would be pleased to hear from you.