The Worm

The choice is not felicitous:
To drown in the mud of the lower lawn,
Or to haul oneself onto that arid plain,

the sidewalk sheet,

There to bake to a rust-colored crisp
And become the prey of birds and caravans
Of ants, or victim of indiscriminate soles,
The blind destroyers of minuscule things.

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The Worm