The bull

His bent head wounded,
And sweat-rivers through his knotty hair
And knotted shoulders of bone and sinew unbroken.

His eyes shriek of exhaustion,


Before him stands the matador
With sharpened death in hand.
For too long, he thinks
Too long I’ve run this ragged life
A race without end
But my own.

I will not bow before you—
will not bow my head.
I stand
I sway
But stand
Before the hoarded jeerers who wish my arena’ed end.

each muscle is a flame.
each tendon is a knot.
each drop of sweat is blood.

I stand
I sway
I stand before the screaming hoards—
the faceless masses who matter nothing but most.
They don’t know you but they cheer your death.

Why why why what have I done to you but nothing?
To run so far.
Run in circles endless circles
A red flag waved before my eyes
It whirling runs so swiftly
so far to run and fall
in a race measured by matches,
by fights
by wins.


what does he feel
what does it feel to die
as his great mass collapses
upon the broiling sands of the arena?

Is it pain …
I doubt it.

What is one pinprick after a lifetime of hurt