The Bull

I have seen the black bull cry.

I have seen the black bull tire of his horns.

I have seen him lay down his three diamonds.

For years he has carried those diamonds.

But I have seen him lay them down.

He carries them:

Three boulder-sized constellations of shine,

Three vain planets:

One for the rump,

One for the neck,

One stuck between his horns.

Three diamonds, three hoof-crushing diamonds.

I have seen him lay them down.

I have seen the bull lay his black bulk of a body down

In the green field, alone among grass blades.

I have seen the bull cry.

Then again, this does not come as a great surprise;

this is a bull who has fallen in love with every shrub, crowned or not with color—

who has cried for every fallen tree:

a bull like

a flower with a stone stem and satin petals.

When his body crashes down, when his eyelids thud shut,

The grass blades try to caress him from under,

And the rain tries to kiss him from above—

And when the clouds tire the winds take their turn,

Kneading the bull’s foreribs, his flank, his back, his black gaze of a thousand longings,

Trying to dry his tears of oil, his black slobber.

But the fire in the bull’s heart of frozen coal

Keeps weeping itself out through the coal heart’s pores:

Ebony tears, dead fire.

The bull’s heart cries out tears of black dead fire.

The bull’s eyes cry out black tears.

None ask him with their different voices why he cries.

They know.

The bull has not spoken since he was sentenced:

And the diamonds have never been broken.

I have seen the scars on his rump, on his neck, on his poll,

Those crimson scabs shaped like three sullen scallops.

See how his body sinks there: see how his face sinks.

See his slow ordained death.

See the bull cry.