It was cold this afternoon
when little orange cat greeted me
by running over lawns he'd
annexed as his own, past sinking bushes
reminded of the sinking roads of my memory--
I think of dying everyday or if I'm swirling in
my own aged mind at the end of my
life, seeing illusions I can't break out of,
listing back and forth between consciousness
and unreality, untethered.
Am I living in the past
dreaming of you?
I fear I am.