What’s a writ before a witless worm, A worm before a storm? “Worms aren’t indigenous, though, They’re borers in foreign loam, Usurpers, delighted undertakers rolling in it.” Rich earth, richer pleasures unknown. But no epaulets for them: An epaulet, a thread of gold = a threat. We fear Czars ascending again, Crowned not in opposition to the administration, But with abject derision for our holy kingdom. This poem was written by Sammy Dalati. Send an email to [email protected] to get in touch. Photo Credit: Marjorie Wang