There is nothing
like the buzzing
of your own heart
in your own ears.
Nothing greater
nothing worse
only dissonant
rhythmic changes
as you rise
and fall.

The pound
pound
pound
of pulse
breaking through
innocent
blue veins,
coaxing a response
out of limp,
lifeless wrists.

You scratch,
nothing but swift,
apathetic strokes
while knives
slice pomegranates
too full
too excited
to resist
spilling everything.

One inch
is one state
two miles
of thousands
on the map
but the key
camouflages
the most convenient
escape routes.

If you want to
touch
and feel,
find refuge,
be alive:
fight with the ***** deckhands,
throw your hands up,
let it be.

When I was young
and summer was fresh
I used to watch
the worms
bathe in the driveway
during a heavy rain.

They danced about
the pavement,
their pink flesh
speckled with dirt,
soaking up the droplets
so freely driven
d
o
w
n
w
a
r
d
from the heavens.

And I would think
how nice to be a worm.

Days spent digging,
handless groping
through brown tunnels,
unseeing eyes peeled,
searching for a spouse
to do the dirt dance with
before introducing them
to the big, mean world
above.

And I’m still thinking
how nice to be a worm.

Focused only on
living,
crawling,
feeling,
never finding the time
to notice
the enthusiasm
of a thunderstorm
when children
press their noses
to windows
and wonder
what worms
are really all about.