Watching a Worm

The nematode, only oms And then of course, noms And munches, without, really munching much at all. No teeth. Ah. To move in the mulch. a thicket of touch not really knowing where or, how you are. A siphon of silicone sipping at soil silent and secure. But, at any sudden moment, you might get all your hearts broken, (five, good grief) then broke again and again (five of em) by the bastardized beak of some god-damn animal? Rough. But, the worm being herself wiggles anyway and says: “I am a worm. I do what worms do. I swam through the rain, once to sleep tail to tail with some woman, man, I don't know I wormed through the pit of a turnip bit, once. It was warm enough to feel like rainlight.” And you wasn't awarded remembered, or understood. You was ignoreded, dismembered, and stood on. So. Why worry. There really are worse things in life than to wiggle.