Monday, November 29, 2010

St. Saturnin of Toulouse

you made a cheap promise

that you’d hold me when

the bulls started to run.

a fear of hooves. a fear

of rippling brown hides.

I have a memory

of leaning out

these windows,

watching the animals

take to the cobblestones.

I let my scarf flutter

down to the street.

It disappeared

in a rush of muscle.

everything was

reduced to thread.

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