Charging Bull that reaches back
to before the urbanesque agglomerations
that became the hoyuks of Anatolia,
indeed, beyond our neolithic forebears
to that nethertime when H. Sapiens
had become artists but were not yet Kings
(but were probably already priests)
Auroch:
first for nothing,
then animated with animus,
and after apotheosis, a god.
Power:
Totemic, magical, nigh religious.
Markets true as Baal to Qart'hadast:
Ballerinas contort fine motions
on the back of the bronze beast,
flanked by the blue guard of Nea-Neapolis
who try to keep it from anarchonoclasts
who would destroy it with the fervor
of zealots against any idol.
Jubilee not forthcoming,
they have honed their craft
and no longer fear us,
our time is a line and
our latter-day kingship
needs not the nod of a god,
so the bull that once
gave holy sanction to
restoring the land
forgiving our debts,
and forever creating all anew,
instead tramples us,
leaving our broken bodies
strewn about the fields,
our own spilt blood
nourishing the soil,
preparing for another harvest
whose yield we will never taste.
We wait for the animal to die,
to exhaust itself and the world,
and look forward only to an end,
and never again a rebirth.
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