By Julie Flanders
The poem
Sits like a worm
Excited at both ends
Wanting to connect
With itself
Or something like itself
The poem
Waits for the word
To uncurl
To slither in the earth
Fearlessly
The worm
Has no idea it is ugly
It is a beautiful thing
This poem
Lacks the grace of the worm
These words
Are not what they want to be
They want to be flying
In a royal flock
They want to lead the other words
In a parade of stars and feathers
To be loved for better
And for worse
To sing in a perfect key
Unlocking the secrets of the universe
Singing the song of the galaxies they traverse
The ultimate verse
And to sing that song
Of origin
Multiverses
And the choruses too
That’s what the words want to do
The worm does not care about that
Does not care if the earth is curved
Or flat
The worm is unaware of the atmosphere
Lifting its skirt
To let the sun rise
The worm is in the dirt
Wiggling with joy
And surprise
The worm is love
And the words that fly above
Look down with hunger
With desire
On that rich squirming life
And meat
And as they come down
They forget
You are what you eat
And now
The worm
And the bird
Are somehow
Complete
Photo by Matthew Wiebe
October Process 