1

Come on poets,
word it

till it's yours
or no one's

the way the clock
on my nightstand,

long hand
bonking the numbers
feverishly,

is no one's

2

Sing Muse
of who's what
in this deluge.

The flux of dreaming
carries language with it.

A narrator
must stand aside
and mimic.

Where is he
when the whole worm
burns

from mouth to anus?

What is he
when the worm
refuses?