In The Bull

I become
the bully,
the bully bull.
Horns for eyes.
When I observe,
I gore.
When I approach,
I trample.

I know why
the fenced bull bellows:
because he can.  He
must.

I’m generally mostly frozen now,
beef like a
stone.  Watch
friends turn aside.
Watch my own
steaming breath.
I did not, did not
want to be inside
the animal’s hide
completely — only
to wear a bit for show.

All the world’s
an apocryphal red flag.
Picadores
assemble.  All
my intimates seem
to be toreadores.
Which of them
will do for me?