Woodlouse is neither a Proud
Worm nor a Heavenly Butterfly
I am a hiding thing.
I don’t have any hinterwings
for enforced metamorphoses.
You say you’ll be my hiding place –
that inside your red cave, flame-shaped wounds
there’s dead wood for me to chew.
Would you not flinch from fourteen feet creeping into you?
I will make you sick.
If you have any comments on this poem, Helen Fletcher would be
pleased to hear from you.