Stuck and stumbling, the bull makes our air more
of what it is. We are four beers closer to a decision
about dinner and the barbs protrude
from its mat as false ornamentation; my eyes are never far from
her collarbone, so smoothly hung above her breasts.
We are here to be reminded of our bodies. The sun
is setting in every direction. A year from now,
I’ll remember that splash of skin, and she
the way the dirt pebbled around the bull’s blood. After
we ate on stools, napkins and bones cast
to the floor, and left late for the beach—couples
drunk and strung together. For them, the morning
was too soon.