The Kulaks Head South

A mule with whom

I have rapport

passed nonetheless

like petrichor

as a cuckold for whom

God was good

to put away the industry

the urchin bailed by thirst.

Tread the desert as if

ergonomic

explicitly to fail the clouds

then to fuck the wheat.

But somehow I think he

natty eye and all

will surfeit the grind again.

The suburbs never leave the city

nor the farm

to blanch the middle;

cold-cut another Moghul

through the sky's mad canyon

listening to those stories

neither pit nor fruit

neither pit nor fruit

igniting Gupta again.