The earthworm flattens, and the neon
Soles of a boy’s Sketchers light up:
The only ceremony for the thing’s death.
What’s left: a steam-rolled flesh tube,
Streamers of guts trailing from behind:
Cherry-red, piss-yellow, and livery-purple.
Mid-July heat reduces the corpse
To a mummified crisp cemented
Onto grey concrete, hot as a griddle.
A murder of crows fly overhead. They pay no mind;
It’s too thin, papery, pathetic
For even them to pick at.
The Tributary 