Their Cries by Mike Finley

Underfoot the worms awake.
The sudden flood from the oscillating sprinkler
is intolerable to them, and they push to the surface
pink and brown and nearly straight
like little socks hung out to dry
and exposed to the idiot sun
and if I had the right kind of ears
I am sure I would hear them gasp.

Mike went to a picnic but there was nobody there. This sort of thing is always happening.

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