Thursday, October 11, 2012

The White Bull

A white bull, a king of the field.
Magnificent. Who else could match you?
The chest scraping the clover
the massive haunches and the shimmering flanks
the powerful roll of the shoulders
the ripple of throatflesh
and the circumspect twitch of the tail.
Whose bone was it that splintered your crown?
How many calves now grazing in your field
came to the sunlight from your dreadful loins?

One comes to the kingdom to meet the king.
One comes to the pasture to meet the bull.
Life straddles horsebacks and drips from horns
And I to see life with my own eyes
and breathe it with my own lungs
have come to you, to the field of dung
and dandelions
at least to sit upon a splintered post
and watch you graze
swallowing green life to produce white--


if not to feed you clover with my hand
and feel the stormcloud of your breath against my skin
then to have your hide, tight drawn like a bowstring
stretched and nailed, embracing the house wall;
and your bullslaying rack
I would paint red
and fix to the lintel
to catch the hearthglow in the night
and blaze by day when the door is open
crowning the field of blue with red.

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