Memory

Over the night a bull

Whispers into a coal

:Unmeant in the stall to sit and plate,

But sixth, with all the senses,

To consume—

Incorporate— those signal

Impressions which are (we know) its fate:

In explosions, in hard strides,

His coattails fly; to bits, to friends

Craven and brave.

Sadness undulates at their back.

His lilt's a cotillion of flies.

But how he charges, he commits!

Each to the next.

It seems unfair, a target lies

Between its shoulder blades.

And another whisps right back:

A drop of blood would pin back his wild hair

Which wanders as it wills

A sunset like acupuncture