Bad Moon Day
Cats go out then cry to come in.
A runt-end of shade wilts.
We feel the pull of a Lunar tide,
sense the off-center mewing
of a dissonant aria.
Trembling dogs hide their body-bones.
We strain teapots through fish bones,
a clammy light gnaws.
Pale mice scurry on twilight paws.
There will be an end of sorts,
a draining. First, there must be
this haunting glow,
so deep that it will wound
even hedgerow roots.
Until then we must watch
a pall-bearing dusk
depart on crumbling stilts.
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