During daylight the bed seems humongous to the twin’s eyes.
Yet at night it seems to shrink to the sweaty bodies lying in it.
The youngest, Eugene and I,
Keep pinching the larger bodies of our older brothers
in search for space, individuality, air, and life.
We have become a red rose’s thorns.
Vulnerable to the stone-like bodies of Francis, Louis, and Joe.
They will not wake until it is too late.
Tomorrow they will walk under the sad sun,
Silent and solemn.

Why are there worms when it rains
Gathering to the surface for air, for sun
The pinecones curling like dead bugs
Like upturned cockroaches and beetles
The scent of forgotten aquariums hanging over the dirt
The petrichor stained metal handrails
With grass soaked pools

And after it rained
The corpuses of worms sat
Gruesomely pressed into pavement fossils
Beneath a brown soled sneaker