April 14th

Jim the worm grunter

is on the dirt before sunrise

he mists water on the ground as a charm

his profession is weak

as his knees in the soil

Jim's only skill is rubbing

notched wood against an iron spike

calling worms with judders thick

and porous as rolling drumbeats

the first worm of the morning

the worm occurs, thin and pink as an inch

he dances, twists as if pained,

or as if struggling to shed his skin

as if imagining

himself greater,

a snake, so much bigger

and more beautiful,

with a face and teeth and scales

for its raw skin, a throat for hot soup

and bird bones,

slicker and grander,

so much stronger, more perfect,

even, more real than himself.