I can crawl down
deep, deep as if my spine tunnels
into the ground, meek, meek
a silent crouch below
my speech, where
I cannot be found
disappear into the dark pit of my gut
where disgust gets digested, loneliness absorbed
then, when I so choose to,
yet again, emerge whole,
sound

SO,
don't you worry about
little old me
and my poetry,
we'll be just
fine