Woke up, the wrong side of morning,

wrong side of the bed on the wrong

slide of sleep, tossing, thrashing,

 

on the wrong slip of sunrise,

the wrong side of robins singing,

singing on the wrong side of worms,

 

night’s dregs in the balance

in April, night’s teeth on the wrong

slight of my body, my body

 

the wrong stride of writing, coffee,

breakfast left on the counter,

and outside on the cold side

 

of the window, rye grass the wrong

side of the dirt, a forecast

for rain, clouds on the north side

 

of trees, moss wronging that same face,

moss as green as the monster

on the wrong side of my waking

 

to early news that gnaws long

and on the other side, a bank

of purple clover, three baby ducks.