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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