He sat on the mule, slumped forward.
They’d tied him into the saddle
and whacked the beast down the hill
to the cabin on the lake, with the blue
light above the door like a pet star
that knew him well and waited for him.
Oh, he was looked after, that madman.

The snake he’d caught and tethered
to the gate was very poisonous.
He left no sign pointing this out, nor
did he mention that the albatross he’d
caught in a net and freed in the cellar
was vicious. He never underlined.
Let things happen as they were wont to.

At the cabin, his wolf welcomed him
by howling, and when he was released
from the mule by his muttering lover
who helped him over the threshold,
he smiled, and kissed her, earning
a slap, then wobbled into the kitchen
to find the bottle of Mescal, and he

remembered, in a previous life, being
a pre-hispanic Indian in Monte Albán.
Yes, he did, then collapsed asleep
on the floor, to dream of his murder
at the hands of a Spanish conquistador.
He woke from this with a great thirst,
but no sore head, and he drank water.