Sleepwalking

It is the world woven into dream
until only the opening doors appear

fresh in my mind, always
the restless ins and outs

made stranger by the scrapes up both shins,
the dry blood pooled on my foot,

the plastic box of Command Strips
overturned in the trash can,

as if I had been getting out of something,
or doing jiu-jitsu,

which I am sure I do not know. This woven life
of bedless nights,

of water soaking through my clothes
as I wake unfazed, now obeying

my mother as she leads me back to my room,
now passing the flickering TV and my father

alone on the couch who calls after me
in the dark when I fade

out the door and cross
the wet midnight grass.

And towards what? Some secret.
I remember standing on my brother’s bed

and clawing the line
where the wall met the ceiling,

knocking soccer trophies off the shelf
and onto him as he slept,

as if that line would unravel
the mystery.

How long it will take to get back inside
once the lock has clicked into its groove

because it is cold
and I am half-naked.

How long it will take to make it out
for real this time,

if that is what I am doing,
because each door is a new sadness,

just like the morning I wake up
and feel the world is suddenly new,

only to realize I put a sweater on in my sleep,
which is why I am waking warm and enfolded.