The clock falls back and the cat

doesn’t give a damn about the hour.

She howls at five and five-ten; she howls again

at five-twenty and six. She knows there’s no heft

in my silencing voice. Daybreak grit under my feet,

I trip through gauzy dark, bend to feed her as night 

backs into gutters and lanes: feral, silent.

The rat of my dream, low to the ground,

had a brown tail the length of a garden snake.

I could smell its breath, the grass-like sweetness.

I touched its feet, a dozen white spiders 

crawled across my fingers, birth sac 

of light cut free.

Jim Nason is a poet and novelist. His most recent book of poetry is called Music Garden.