The Reckless Sleeper

After Magritte

His dream laid out like an apron across the floor:
the bowler hat (travel abroad); a blue bow (a favored lady);

a candied apple (at last, fulfillment); the lit candle (setbacks).

Of the dull bird: no one should dream
of pigeons. It is enough that they dream of us.

Of the hand mirror: blame. And then, something else:

an old library filled with brittle books, all written
by the sleeper but in languages he doesn’t understand.

One by one, he pulls each from its place,

ruffles through the foreign pages and smiles
at his accomplishment—the breadth and beauty of it,

the idea of his ideas inscribed inside such tomes.

He delights in this sanctuary, knowing nothing
will be much different where he wakes.