From slat of night, the bull shifts
out from Buck Hill's honed intersections of shade,
mounting the first incoming tidal wave of light;
The bull appears, then reappears.
His horns, those blunted curves, pull up
indisputable shards of light, bringing
the jalousied rise of another day.
The shell of each shard is stout with the flush of hope.
Now the last hunters are denned
to await incalculable night. Unchained
like Prometheus, our star is rising
above Buck Hill.
Look, the bull is leaving the final obscurity
He, who knows neither hold nor match,
under whose relentless pace
the world, unrelenting, moves into light.
If there were noise, the sun would seem
a volcano spitting fire, or a freed myth
returning to the balcony dusted with gold,
exulting in his liberty.
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