Summer drought, ploughed deep
with labor
and sorrow. How heavy the road

behind, and the pony
had its full day’s work before it.
The shame, the hot color

mounted. M had fallen sick.


If there were dregs in
his cup, he was
draining them. And the people

stared at him covered with
dust. The governor smelt
his position. Adam

shoved him off the pavement.


M was tingling as the gate
came down, and
though his voice threatened

to break, he said, “What
ill wind blows you
here?” “Ill wind indeed,”

Adam answered. “The wind of God.”


To be continued…

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