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.