A dead bull on a bed of roses, bleeding.
Inside a ring, within a greater ring.
Dead and confined in death.
The spectators back in their coffins,
withdrawn with the coming night
like the recession of a low tide.
Blood is on the lips and in the dreams.
The dreams merely the saliva over rich memories.
Reaching again for the moment of orgasm
which lasted and died already in the daylight.
Outside the inner ring, the city at night
is a temple that no one frequents.
There are only believers in the mortification of day
where each hisses at the other like sun-struck vampires.
The bull remains dead throughout the night.
Its body lays indiscriminately.
It waits to be resurrected by an act of love.
The idea of love is inconceivable
just as the city night outside of the ring
where there is the hope of invisibility.
