Some days he'd rub two pegs together

    until they made a greasy hum

    like rain， the sound of moles

    grawing the dirt's grain， the song

    soils sing before a quake，

    and the red bodies would hang

    above the ground in a kind of confusion

    or ecstasy. They would writhe.

    The farmer showed me

    the way worms made love

    in concrete， coffin-shaped beds

    on mattresses of moss and peat， slipping

    under the rubber collars of each other，

    joyous， shy， nervous， taking turns.

    Androgynous worms， their pale larva

    rising like dew on black earth.

    He told me about the sweet spot

    in the warm dirt where he found

    the wild ones， night crawlers

    a foot long. How he worked

    day and night——plastic sky

    dripping on his neck——preached

    on Sundays， sixteen years old，

    reeking of worm sweat.

    We drove around his slow

    Louisiana Baptist town， the square

    garlanded with green metallic boughs，

    red Noels， though it was October.

    There was one movie house.

    The Bijou of course. First floor——

    expensive， gummy， for whites only.

    Blacks sat in the rafters for a quarter.

    Filmy bayous surrounded

    blank brown cotton fields，

    fluttered with white heron.

    Once a black man walked

    by a white girl and she ran.

    He never said hello. The citizens

    dragged him from prison，

    burned the man alive.

    But that's an old story.

    This one's new——a black boy

    sat in that same prison five years，

    innocent too， and when the town freed him

    he headed for the Victorian house

    he'd watched each night like television——

    the illuminated window

    of an eighty-year-old couple——

    he knifed them both， raped the woman，

    what felons become legend to.

    If you tend worms your whole life，

    dig their beds， stir the eggs，

    sort the dark segmented bodies，

    you'll lose the pattern of your own

    flesh. The whorls of your fingers

    will vanish. A worm can eat anything——

    two by four， dog， human.

    I know this world， said the farmer，

    I've listened to worms my whole life

    stirring in slime. I know where

    we come from， and despite all our slick

    designs， I know where we return.

    This town's passed more than once

    through the slippery tunnels of worms.