I thought about bullfighting in the shower
and drank whiskey and felt how far away from myself
I really am. Like power lines in the middle of nowhere–
long, flat landscape that’s there for driving through,
and for coyotes, and I stand in those burned
fields keeping the crows away. I can stand so still.
I can wait. Somewhere else bullfighters are making love
to beautiful women; they are sharp and fast
and in a hurry. Their symphonic thighs twitch,
ready to make a great escape. The bull is quiet
in its pen, breathing into hay. Can you call something
filled with insane fight unsuspecting?
The fucking barbarity makes me crazy.
I have a million apologies I want to hand out
for other people. I have fewer apologies to hand out
for myself. But they are big ones and they sit there
breathing on the other side of every fence.
I stay in the shower. I steam up the windows
and make baby feet patterns on the glass with
the outside of my hand. I add toes as an afterthought.
The horns and crowds, the screaming, the hands and mouths–
everyday has the possibility of forgiveness.