Monday, July 20, 2015

In night we are much like in day

my gray cat
is a gray poet;

in sleep he rages,
awake he stalks
shadows, bites at
imaginary objects--

there is nothing but me
in my dreams; my
waking reality; my
drug laced fantasy;

in night we are much like in day,
the street lights for the sun
line the way; home--

with orange slitted eye,
he watches outside, watches
in; ears twitch, tail snapping,
pupils dilate, muscles taut;
to pounce.

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