worm weaving on a damp april morning
i wore bare feet like row boats.
tried to step so as to not harm
the alphabet. instead i killed "z"
& left a lot of language hanging.
we were still talking & shouldn't have been.
i was finding parking lots
to kill plastic bags with my hands.
kneeling in the confessional of a pickup truck.
i wanted to be delivered to where
the worms emerge. alive in their
porous dirt. i pictured cities
in the soil. a train stop where
a worm sings a song about both his
desire for & fear of the sun.
i too turn into a stain
in the wrong light. when do you begin
packing up a heart? i tried
bin & boxes. we kissed on my sofa
until it was on the sidewalk too.
it's amazing how easily
one life can fold into another
& they can both be yours.
i do everything i can to avoid the worms.
imagine the impulse that carries them
across each other in the vibrant downpour.
i too want to make symbols
with my body & others.
tomorrow the survivors will be
no where to be found. back to being
sketch-book lips & shoe lace gods.
the others will lay on the sidewalk.
i linger too long. i let the sun do
whatever it needs of me.
in this sense we are all disciple.
me, to your new-moon face.
the worms to water's wild call.