the
minotaur at supper: spare the noritake and the spode
from these
ungular hands. goblet stems scattered at my hoofs
a
spattering of color on my hide. remnants of one youth
another
impaled on my horns: I must say grace over his thighs
for there
may be no path back to him. the way is dim and twists
myself am
halfboy. am beauty and the end of same: a hungry thing
hunts me
also: through which passageway do my nostrils sense blood
what
aperture brings me air salted with cries of the ancient corrida
No comments:
Post a Comment