letra de the goring - sylvia plath
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arena dust rusted by four bulls’ blood to a dull redness
the afternoon at a bad end under the crowd’s truculence
the ritual death each time botched among dropped capes, ill-judged stabs
the strongest will seemed a will towards ceremony. obese, dark-
faced in his rich yellows, tassels, pompons, braid, the picador
rode out against the fifth bull to brace his pike and slowly bear
down deep into the bent bull-neck. cumbrous routine, not artwork
instinct for art began with the bull’s h-rn lofting in the mob’s
hush a lumped man-shape. the whole act formal, fluent as a dance
blood faultlessly broached redeemed the sullied air, the earth’s grossness
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