As — for how else do poems go? — as some
Torero in his bravery, gold and red,
Ignites with a playing wrist that ton of plumb
Thunder, all testy rump, hot hovering head —
Toes so, set like a wager, risk a thigh
Bright in its cocky silk, with nerve and bone;
Lids lowered see the terrible horn go by,
And still he rolls like a flag in battle, blown
Criss-crossing —
Turns a languorous shoulder then
Full on that savage bafflement, in throes.
A rapture of handkerchiefs, standing girls and men
Dazzle the plaza. White, sun-reveling rose !
Blood on the dust, dark blood on wrist and knee.
“As, you began — ?”
And gloat again: as he.