From the Gates of Fear, I bolt -
startled, graceless, grotesque;
snorting blind ambition.
Distracting trumpets hiss,
colors, sounds and jeers spur
an uneasy nerve toward limbo.
The noble Matador appears;
regal, bold, commanding.
A sapphire flash – the Sash.
Lurching, twisting, dancing,
the Cloth teases, mocks, temps-
I dash, wilt, then charge again.
His sword pierces swiftly;
gently and repeatedly, I fade -
a dying beast, gratefully reborn.
Written
June 30, 2002
Plaza de Toro
