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Worm | Glenn McPherson

Recoiling link of worm appals

the fresh-dug hole. Each and every aortal

phut – its guts deliver yours.

It wasn’t like I had the bubonic plague;

of course, one can never be too sure.

Employing extra force unsheathes

Neat bits of dream:

Missing fingers, remain amiss

upon awakening … Your body in a suitcase

unfolds in my cradled arms…

Enrapture with the waves

On an otherwise calm lake.

And how the worm must dream

its guts, upon each clod: the black blood

a mistake,

a fraud each severed portion;

a scintilla, ratified by naked sinew.

What, may I ask, has faith to do

With mud but not with meat?

Movement, with the unmoved?

There is no mystery in the fall

Of shovel-blade. Rather, an alacrity

in cutting through the earth,

the great separation to cultivate.

Glenn McPherson is a Sydney based poet. His poems have been published in Meanjin, Cordite and Southerly.


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