A Wrong-ness in the Waning Moon

There’s a wrong-ness in the air

that would neither settle

nor move along.

It brought vague questions

and cold sweats that tingle

my feet;

the sky is pale

and the dog is howling;

the wrong-ness,

artless and raw.

A waning moon showed. 

It is now dark out.

Fangs in the sky

start to dance,

gnawing at my gut. 

The hour on the clock

is wrong.

So was the color of my sweat

that I have just washed

down the drain. 

The only thing right

is the certainty 

that this wrongness exists.

But I must not come find

where it rests

for I have gone that way before. 

And the only end

I would meet

on that path

is more wrongness.

Yet it rattles my bones,

like they’re wind chimes

out in an approaching storm. 

A Wrong-ness in the Waning Moon

March 8, 2021