When the Bull Stops Fighting
So does the matador. He drapes the cape over the bull and says “Let’s get our wounds cleaned up, old friend.” Together they limp out of the arena— the crowd unable to decide to boo or cheer does neither. Side by side they travel, the matador and the bull, down an old, long street El Greco could paint with his eyes bandaged over twice. The two shimmer in the heat of the day and disappear, the cape on the ground, the cape a saint shall bless, then destroy— what is heaven but what we leave behind?