Centipedes look different at night.  See that stout, cigar shaped lint over there?  Boo! It is really a centipede waiting to skittle on its own evil parallel plane, and then zoom into a blur like an air hockey puck.  It isn’t even afraid of you, or your dog. 

Centipedes sting.  That’s nice.  In a fight between a spider and a centipede I wonder who would win? I would totally root for the spider.  I wonder where centipedes live.  They seem solitary too, like the world’s best predators.  The psychopathic creature, but don’t call it a bug! Call it an anthropod, a relative of the spider, the lobster, the shrimp and the humble barnacle. 

Most centipedes don’t even have sex to reproduce.  The males just deposit their sperm wherever, and assume that a female will come along and eat it.  Nasty.  There is one species said to reproduce asexually and produces only females.

The cute illustrations for children’s books represent an altogether different and completely inaccurate verson of the creepy crawler.  It is usually a super friendly, multi-colored worm with multiple pairs of sneakers. 

Did you find one yet, maybe in your bathroom or under your bed near the damp window?

seabeds wretched themselves

ornament sized lobsters, a cow speckled seal and  

anemic clam guts

snot between rocks.

a secret pact between galaxies and water,

one catches the other’s lonely, broken things.

starbuds choked up through foam

unbelonging moist creatures

curl their weak starpointed hands into the sand

and stop the eyeless search.

now cradled in my palm

a pocket full of starfish reunited

they are cut from ancient sky.

love arrives too late to save them