Worms
The nanny-face has taught us “church.” And so when father tells us where he goes these white-faced winter days We lace our hands to pistols, wriggle fingers in palmy-walls like captive worms. Church. Gone. While We wait alone alone alone together.
We tell Ourselves this is just another bottle-bottom and sure enough, his breath burns hot and violet bright. But what to make of this new song? On return, he lifts just onehalf of We in burly arms he, jolly, sings: “A boy! A boy! A boon! A bounty ticket, out! A boy!”
Then left again. In creaking-night silence We shrug, aim steeples at oneanother, fire, sleep.
