Over the night a bull
Whispers into a coal
:Unmeant in the stall to sit and plate,
But sixth, with all the senses,
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