Worms in the backyard

Under the upended playhouse, rosy worms squirm.
Pink and long, strings of sinew, lines so symmetrical.
One has a salmon ring around its middle.

Nothing I learned in childhood about worms is true anymore.
They don’t have a head, or an end, or they have too many hearts.
Under the upended playhouse, rosy worms squirm.

What still seems to be true: they are pale against dark dirt.
Pink and long, strings of sinew, lines so symmetrical.
They move through soil in tunnels only as big as their bodies.

Under the upended playhouse, rosy worms squirm.
They must not be claustrophobic. No one takes them out of the MRI
and injects their veins with a chilly medicine (now go back in the box).

Pink and long, strings of sinew, lines so symmetrical.
Every time I learn a worm fact, I find out later it’s just not true.
They don’t have a head, or an end, or they have too many hearts.

Under the upended playhouse, rosy worms squirm.
Pink and long, strings of sinew, lines so symmetrical.
They don’t really have a head or a brain or too many hearts.
It might all be true.