There is,
at this moment, a
worm crawling down my
monitor. Against the
bright white background of my text, I can see the
spring-shaped
intestine compressing as he
pulls himself along, running all the way through his
body, which is a
translucent pinkish brown. He is
covered in
flecks of
dirt, having recently
escaped from the
confines of the
potted pepper plant which sits,
flowering,
atop the crowded hutch of my
cluttered desk.
Ah, wiggly worm, my room is not the place for you - outside, into the garden on a cool, still night, you go...