Guadalajara

 Tin trumpets
 mold the air
 into a pregnant blare
 As the gates present
 A blackened bull, horned,
 With testicles dangling
 like a wealthy man's purse.
 The people, fanning and cheering,
 the stubble mouths
 Wet with the dregs
 of brightly labeled bottles,
 Now waving like victory flags.
 
 Again
 the strident special note
 To prepare a path
 for him
 Who stands
 in starching tightness
 with the loose flowing red cape,
 stitched in gold,
 and clutched too tightly
 In the hand.
 The bull turns,
 nearsighted eyes search
 The small mean world around
 for a chance
 To lunge
 at whatever
 His mind-meat commands.
 The sun and shadow sides
 bet
 Whose blood
 Will paint the dust floored world
 and hope
 for events
 Whose repeated recital
 will purchase a glass
 And again when
 the evening friends gather,
 They push the dirt
 onto the clotting places
 And bring on
 next and another
 Till the purpling sky
 calls the lovers of bravery
 home and the estoque,
 cleaned and honed, rests
 And the white shirt, with
 fine lace and spangles
 Stinking with mansmell, awaits
 the old lady who cleans
 The small russet splashes,
 And resews the started seam.
 

estoque (curved sword used for killing the bull).