The Bull

Don’t speak;

Be silent, be attentive.

Be listening.

Don’t ask me how I’ve been.

I’ve been nowhere.

Nowhere has watched me read thousands of pages of fan fiction,

stewing in envy of those who can summon The Will;

Nowhere has watched me go to bed at 4AM on a Sunday and fly

through the house and out of the window in three frantic

minutes the next morning; Nowhere has seen me marvel

at Banteay Srei, a trip I never told you about, where a blazing

noon and humid air startled my skin into nostalgia’s waiting grip,

caught in a slowly crumbling red world, dragons breathing white

fire, a stone bull resting on its side on a slab in the middle of it all;

most of him is long-eroded but the eyes on that invisible head

are nevertheless watchful, bewildered still by a sky of any color,

curled tail and timid hooves wary of curious hands.


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