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--

And

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.