Once You Sleepwalked

Once you sleepwalked and now
your free-floating form gives weight
to what one might think is dust,
yet are the hazy eyes of hurricanes
seeing what silence looks like, or somehow,
numbers unencumbered by equations,
like one plus one—what we used to be,
an answer to two excruciating things—
once you sleepwalked, and dreamed that
we in one room swollen with two sets of
memories smoked, talked, made idle
patterns with our fingers on eachother’s
souls—you sleepwalked once, and now we
reach through darkness to the substance
of human need, and I search my mind for
missing footsteps—where you might be and
be going still, what sounds linger between two
fitful, strange and absurd dreams—
I sleepwalk too, you know,
into obsolescence of intent, into
depraved and hopeful longing, through
glossolalic incantations, through the living
veil alone and into oneness, where you are,
where we will be.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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