the worms don't give a shit about getting stepped on until after it happens trying to escape drowning they undulate across asphalt from soaked grass and wet clay only to exhaust themselves in puddles be picked off by the robins who strut around like easy pickings are a testament to their hunting prowess or dry out as crispy rings stranded in the heat too far from the moist earth but safe from drowning at last today the sun was out this is not an allegory today the sky was blue and the clouds were puffy and white this is not a metaphor today the grass was green and i avoided being a worm and i avoided being the foot that steps on worms
Tag: worm
worm (20171111)
worm on the sidewalk
wriggles and dances, whip crack
thrown to grass safety
beak (20170526)
the black bird has no song for me
his voice a hybrid of
dismissive laughter and
cynical certainty
still
he digs in the wet earth
for fat worms
and doesn’t complain
about the mud
on his beak
Poem 20150914
o, crimson worm
art thou sick
in thy dark secret, flies
does the invisible storm destroy life
that night
howling in his bed
thy love has found out
and the joy of life rises
—
This is a remix of The Sick Rose, a poem by William Blake, one of my favorite Poets with a capital P. You can find the original here. I’m pretty sure I used every word and only changed one.
Words and Feathers 