The mud knows the man was limping,
the puddles sipped on dripping blood;
both miss the bootstep, dearly,
the taste of leather and rubber and
traces of ocean salt,
they saw him go that way –
they saw those who followed
and unwittingly confessed his trace –
was it the mud’s fault he was found,
bound, beaten, broken,
or should he have known better
than to trust the mud.

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