The Bull Does Not Always Die
The black smooth rough hide of midnight dark
Rivulets of dusty sweat leaping off
As he ran and dodged and feinted and attacked
The man, day-glo matador, flashing eyes and sword.
The baying crowd dry-throating the challenge and the curse
The black leaping forward to the cloak-cape-wall
Swelling eyes, and angry mind, a spear a jockey
Deep in his side, bouncing and jolting, searing stab.
The folds of the cape enfold his head and horns
His blindness concentrates the pain of the blade’s harpooning
His tempter bullet spins, back facing his final havoc wrought
Ivory hook of gristle, piercing the skin, kissing the heart, extinguishing the lights.
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