Ravenous blood-red worms convulse on end in the murky field,
    as if boiled on a hotplate.
    Seizing the rolling fog that looks like steam.
    Making fleshy wet slapping noises as stomachs turn.

There's few else around, a student passing on the trail behind,
    looking in my direction; but not at the field, nor the blood-red worms.

They're gone, look back. Pick a branch, dry and hollowed. Approach and reach forward,
    forward, forward.