pm poetry

While I dream,
alabaster cats pad
down alleyways—
silhouettes shiver
between linen-shrouded
window frames—
and the falls go on
walloping shards into
crystal dallops
that will wash up
and illuminate
slick banks.

I dream,
and the world keeps
spinning away, turning
lazy on its axis,
indifferent to
us residents,
adjusting its seas,
and sand,
and clay.

I dream
and time keeps
slipping,
quicker than
when I wake.

I dream
and witness
none of this
yet steady
marches age.