Black bull, nostalgic for wounds,
Charging your watery landscape,
Examining letters and luggage,
On those trains that run to arenas.

What do you dream in your dreams,
What hidden longings redden the journey,
What systems of watering and drainage
Rehearse your plunge in the sea?

Nostalgia for the man with a sword,
For gangrene and femoral blood;
Not even your keeper denies you.

Hurtle bull, to the sea: charge, at nothing,
And as you would wound, grant death
To a matador of salt, sand, and spray.