sleepwalker

this is the winding castle
of wet brick
crying sirens,
late sleepers in empty
rooms. teasing curtains
part in dim lamp light,
illuminating fast sneakers
with their starched ruffles.
to find the lord for these
grounds, you think,
would mean howling miles
and screeching
tires, ducking the neon lit
arms that swing in a
clumsy brail of the damned,
silky echoes of wet wind
markered with twilight’s
frigid grin. and you are right–
but near chipped gutters,
between torn fences,
you may find him at last
resting in his muddy tower,
open palmed and
somehow lost
asking for his key