Prose poem from my blog

[My Good Babushka]

I'm not a very good writer, but I thought I did a decent job of it. I'm more of a painter, anyway.

I lost a foothold and I became lodged here, some new thing, beneath the ivy. Millipedes, queerly concentric, coil in my mouth. A grub nestles in my bellybutton. Tiny white wispworms adorn my ears. I feel my way with tendrils that sigh and twine. My circlets nimbly strum flower buds pink as baby toes clasped tight against the morning light. Aching nervelets squeeze the ichor from an earwig. I doze on the moss, in the loam, and dream of putting my teethmarks on your succulent ankle.