I don’t want to let it get away from me,

this writing. Sometimes it slips from my

grasp and I spend days looking for it and

other time it’s here and pouring out as

fast as this pen will move. We walked

through the streets of old and new

neighborhoods on rain-soaked sidewalks

with tiny worms washed from lawns

clinging and dying on bits, and in crevices

of pavement. Washed away, and I stepped

on some of them and had little concern

for their survival.