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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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