I wrote this poem after a typical Oswego downpour...
Comments and Criticism please.
The Stench of dead worms
wriggles through the damp air
the puddles forced them out
suffocating their pores
like fingers on the holes of woodwind instruments
breaching the surface of the soil
their sausage like skin is seared
as the sun escapes beneath the gray ceiling
and the cement scrapes away their slimy coating
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I really like how the smell of the worms wriggles through air, like the worms themselves wriggle through the ground. It could however be a bit longer, the enjambed lines fit nicely and it's very visual. I like it.
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