
The Turning Of The Worm,
Painting by Christian Michael
The Worm Turns
Plot points on a small map, where I travel no further
than scattershot; wet in settler’s muck where I wiggle,
human worm, blind, underground, catalyzing compost.
Churning waste to sleepy dreamer’s gold, I rise, emerge,
shadow from shadows, with an urge to breathe; sniff
frightened, decaying stench, too aware of my small skin,
its susceptibility to every madness navigating its ever-
widening swaths to bulls-eye each place in the world.
Backwards I go, deep, dark, to a place that never was.

This is a lovely read. Very interesting.
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Robbie thank you.
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Dear Li, You’ve done a phenomenal job of showing how so many millions around the world must feel, trying to get as low as you can while people who have never seen you, talked to you, or even knew you are trying to turn you into the compost in which they hope to grow their evil weeds. A wrenching poem, visceral in its imagery.
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Dora, thank you very much for your view of the poem as your view expanded the scope <3
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Perfectly described Dora!
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“shadow from shadows”–too many live in this place. (K)
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:(
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An interesting poem, Lisa. I love the artwork.
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This is emotionally hard hitting, uneasy and tense. Great write Lisa 👏
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