A poem

They face in opposite directions to reproduce.
What a miner, pistoning in slow
motion through the underworld of the earth,
engineering vents, channels, water flow,
converting death and dearth,
day in, night out. Each eyeless body
digesting the soil, nursing birth.
Cut in two, they double, breathe via marly
skin, a must for farm and garden: alfalfa,
spuds, spinach, carrots, cabbage, barley,
wasabi, wheat, gourds, rutabaga, papaya,
endive. You name it. Build them a shrine.
May these lowly laborers of Gaia
multiply, flourish, never decline,
stick with worm love, position 69.