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.