The Worm

I have a worm
beneath my hair —
a future worm,

a nerve
from the eternal
present.

Crawled out
of a wedding urn.

My worm has
no utility —

a boiled-looking,
ruddy thing.

A puritan,
he made a home
of incongruency.

Or Dickinson’s:
“He fathomed me — ”

If I can fathom her.
Not as wet nurse,

midwife, or mother.

Not self,
or buzzed self.

Not self
strung out
on beauty.

(A decent
metamorphoses.

A ripe analogy
for early youth.)

But worm, afraid
and unafraid.

As lassoed
by my string.