I Watched A Bullfight in Spain

As dusk approaches

we walk against

the red sunset 

to the arena where 

the girl in front of us 

dances to the sound 

of protesters yelling. 

It is hot. The dust 

of the ring rises 

and spins in small 

twisters, trumpets 

horning as the matador 

presents himself, arms 

raised and glittering.

On the opposite side

the bull guns out,

eyes straight black

like pool balls. 

Men with tissue 

paper harpoons

run and drape

the bull with a shining 

bleeding coat.