Grand Worm

when the world whirls

in front of the frame you still

and in the doorway, you stand

a pupil torn within your floating eye

the nerve of sound, discordant,

whole, like the severed lives of a worm

breaking the compost zest, with mirror heads

senses elixed into the negative

unblinked by the light its held to,

the colors of yourself body the air

around your outline, but you are myopic

in the sweating slink of your seeing skin,


a slow trickle of fastidious sap, down

the bark crust arch of your palm spine


a segment of the sequence of life

peeping out of the rain spattered soil’s

house of forgotten presence


you quiver on the surface

of two depths, like a finger

dissolving in the line it stems


for the first time, the circle’s

memory of its beginning

in a girl, who pinned

the wriggling squiggle of a flatworm

and watched it grow like cuttings

of the old woman who welcomes her here

in time’s tongued tied gaze-


the ocean


you look to so long, you become

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