An Apple for the Mule

My wrists are cut.

A small group of ten tubes

Come through,

A peevish grin on a few dozen chins

Surround me.


I see nothing but the night sky,

A clap of thunder and a spark of


The moon takes refuge

Behind ragged rain clouds,

The showers mix with the red ground.


Clutch my heart

And clog it with clots

An apple is down my throat,

I am a mule

Driven by so many.
But I am me,

And neither the sun

Nor the one eighty one


Can do

Any more than

Can you.


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