Burrowing in your allotted patch you move through the dark, muscles contracting one by one in every part, lengthening and shortening the slick segmented tube of you, furrows in your wake. Devising passages for water, air, you plot the gaps that keep the structure from collapse. Dead things you know. Plants and creatures both. Your grooves shift matter, sifting as you go. Eyeless, your appetite aerates. Eating the world, you open it. You ingest to differentiate. Under the foot-stamped earth, you eat into a clot of leaf mould, clay and mildew, and express what you can part with, as self-possessed as when you started. Your secretions bind the soil, your shit enriches it. How things lie now will be undone, will reoccur. You, a surface-level archivist sensing all there is can be gone through. The body borne within its plot.
“Worm” was used with permission of the author, and comes from the book Fourteen, Copyright © 2018, published by Green Bottle Press.