Cut of clod and slap of earth,
Faint rhythm on my oaken drum.
With slack lungs that hold no breath,
I pray with might for death to come.


Though my heart beat cannot quicken,
To my horror something’s come;
Silent crawling undulation,
In me content to make a home.


 

A slow glimpse beneath closed lashes
The worm lifts its finger-tongue.
Staring face to face with blindness
I understand what is to come.


 

I imagine in him sense and purpose,
And give the worm speech of its own.
“I am here as God’s mistress-
Condemn me not: this work must be done.”


 

“Your soul is rotten, vile wordsmith,
You could have magnified His throne,
Instead you filled the world with filth,
Now for you, your curse has come.”

 

“One thousand days of this slow torture
My kind and I will work your tomb.
But when you are once more with nature
Your soul shall once more be free to roam.”