The Muck
mh   8/97


My fingers are the first to feel the light,
  Dogs come and lick grit from my nails,
Years erode like the soil.
  My hands are unchained
I began to fight my way up.
  Finally I see the muck I am trapped in
Why am I here?  I committed no sins.
  Surrounded by slime; it is all there is
I see other heads,
  but they are few in my hopeless landscape.