Like most good, and all bad poetry,
it begins on my knees in a field
I cannot grow anything in. “God?” I mutter into the soil, “Are you there? Were you ever? How much longer?”
The earthworms beneath me make love, and move in the secret language of dance we biped beasts are not permitted
knowledge of. One day my body will be worth their worship,
like most living and all dead whales. “How much longer?” I ask again.
“As long as we are,” dance the worms.