out of the ground (20220419)

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

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.