I wake from bothered sleep –
another dream of passing trains –
and know where I have to go:

down the moon-mottled hall,
through a kitchen warm with bread,
in a far door to the room’s corner
and his tangled nest of sheets.

Still asleep, he attaches himself –
grips his wrists behind my neck,
drapes his length along my chest
as if he’d never doubt my hold;
his slow breath wets my shoulder.

I know the way – onto cool linoleum,
over a grate, to the night-lit room.
Knee-high I prop him and aim;
his urine splashes in the bowl,
soprano fountain in the late quiet.

We retrace the path, eyes shut,
never brush a door or bump the stove.
This is the third way – not dream,
not day – and he is the weight

I need to walk it carefully.
Here at the bed I lay him down
sleeping, and rise; I rise.