The Worm

A worm burrows down through my mind

Sinking, sliding as though it were a grain of sand

Rolling, trickling through a miserly hand.

And let the creature slip

Like a creature fugitive from

Law and life looking for

Some hideout

Almost level to the ground.

It moves hermetically,

Resigned to travel:

Destination its destiny,

Lodged beyond the vision of town

No transportation has ever reached

Or would ever hope to keep a count.

Listening to Me

I hear voices,

Unlike Joan of Arc

Or some crystal gazing psychic

With Tarot cards spread before her,

Like skittering squeaky rats

They compete for my mind

As though it were a ball of cheese

And those voices must feed on it

After ages of a hungry outbreak.

Some are like chirping birds

Come home for their clamoring chicks

With food in their painted clipper beaks.