Worm, worm
I am a patient worm, worm,
twining through a turn, turn.
The shelter-dark, my home, home —
My hearts are kin to stone, stone.
No eyes have I to see, see,
there isn't any need, need.
My finger-self does seek, seek,
for denser, darker, bleak, bleak.
And if you cut me into two,
there's more of me to feed on you—
for all things turn into the dirt
and even brave men go inert.
