sanchopanzalit
- Oct 9, 2019
- 1 min read

The Bullring

Damon Moore

Upon the forest floor,

bare sand, an ideal temperature reached,

I unclasp the capote de berga.

In the bullring of my adolescence

only pines like these

which I defy, can be,

those bitterest opponents,

still living with tipped black horns

I know will take a sensual act to rid myself of.

To this hot, levelled ruedo

they have not come.

I collect my costume and continue on.

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