Quill of Thoth

There are two schools of thought
On Annelids

All the dark thoughts that
Squirm to the surface
Summoned by the torrents of the sky
Drowning, gasping, formless they swim
To air

Slowly – how slowly!
Reaching the surface
They forsake drowning for death,
Guts spread on the pavement
Fried and desiccated
Mummified and never entombed
Food for birds and thought
Picked over, rejected
Slimy and vague
No one wants to see the smear
On the concrete

Living ribbons, sleek and brownish pink,
One delicate vein running the length,
A blind nose contracts, glistening, tapping
Feeling the coarse route before, wavering
Lost, unable to return to the darkness underground
Where the world is cool and moist and comfortable
A millimeter ahead, a millimeter behind
An eternity of night reduced forever 
To the tiny sphere of what, this moment, IS.

With hands stained rich, coffee-ground black,
The gardener carefully
Places the worm
Back into the rich brown heart of the earth
Amidst the eggshells and the banana peels,
Apple cores, fallen leaves, twigs and grass,
Dirt and sand and clay and silt
Back to the familiar world and
With a glimmer of brownish pink it dives
Drowning no more
In all the deep joyous thoughts 
That are the existence and the advocation
Before the return of the sun