the worms in my bin
old, divine, likely thin
are probably wondering why God
has left the leachate stinking so long
it was two-thousand and fifteen
when I first got their ancestors from Gunther
and a fine pedigree of vegetarian scraps
with occasional mixing of paper traps
makes them think I may be God
a force of nature as nourishing as rain
and as violent as wind
occasionally they may be keen
to explore, often dying dried in my
bathroom floor
I don't blame them, it's a fine instinct
so when my food waste has become bedding soil, I often bring many of them outside,
to the balcony raised beds
so they may leave if they so wish
or get eaten by the lurking magpies, crows, ravens
In repurposed Ikea polythene boxes
they've moved from Kämnärs, Limhamn, and Nörra Faladen
they've heard many guests, witnessed fights and love
as well as an occasional **** outside the bathroom door
they're no Shai-Hulud
that much is for sure
and I wouldn't recommend eating
the spice they do produce
but these worms in my bin
heartless and pure
which I dare not pickup
for my skin is like flame to yours
might someday find me
alongside the roots and ugly leaves
rotting nicely to the core.