Mule


If I were a condom full of cocaine

would you swallow me across the jaguar mesa

border, skittering hoof on brick and Holy

Family flight from the Aztec

pyramids where virgin

blood throws its red leg over the white


bed's edge to rise with the first sun—huh?

Swallow the firework cartridge deep

into the mortar's barrel?  Scream


pre-Columbian constellations, Aurora

Meridialis, in thick wool

Apache colors across the New Mexican winter night?

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