New poem: Worms

This is a reflection on all the horrible things you sense in childhood, but ignore.


Crawl beneath, and think
of all the pretty
pieces mom once sang
about in the lamp’s

piss yellow glare. Grip
one last shred
of a brown blanket,
spattered with

the faces of rabbits,
one trapped in
Mr. Magregor’s fence.
A small, cruel

part of you knows
the farmer lurks
behind the wood wall,
pitchfork wrapped

in old fingers, waiting
to carve peter-
cotton-tail to five
hocks and offal.

Back then, you could
look so far
away from all of that,
WorMs and all night

things hiding not under
your bed or floor,
but waiting some time
soon, for the night

when urges live in knives
thrown far into
gray moss groves. Leaf
piles serve as fit

graves for something
you never knew
was lost, until the memory
dims like a clouded

star’s milk lights. Hail
WorMs, March
on and eat the eyes
of dreams that still


tO dIe.


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