The Somnambulist
Behold the fate of one who chose the night
for writing poems. Poet fell asleep,
I mean, he thinks he's sleeping. He can cite
Baudelaire asleep or calculate the sheep
that graze on misty pastures of his mind,
call forth a lethargy, sleep of the dead,
oblivion. He vainly tries to find
a rhyme with sleeplessness: gets out of bed
and walks around the house sorting through
alternatives. He weighs them on the scale
of lunacy, he reasons but the true
and only reason comes to no avail.
Asleep, somnambulist, you did the best
that you could do and let me do the rest.
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