Lately, they have been crawling into my brain.
They burrow deeply into its warm moist rot.
What does it feel like, the doctors ask?
Well, like someone whispering a secret
in a language I don’t understand, or like wind
at the end of the pier on a cold March morning.
Sometimes, I feel bigger than normal,
as though the earwigs had imparted some
of their legendary wisdom. Other days, though,
I hunch up into a ball under the covers,
like a creature that understands daylight
is the cause of all its problems—look
at that beak plunging from the sun,
ready to swallow me without a thought!