The Tore

The tore, rent, is sent churling,                                                                                                          by a forked instrument,                                                                                                                      till it strikes the gate’s curling                                                                                                              in astonishment.

Fair spectators clasp flowers,                                                                                                          cast in lots on the clods;                                                                                                                         the collection of hours                                                                                                                             spent in fields at lauds.

Within choruses chanting,                                                                                                              through this vast hippodrome,                                                                                                       lifts, the Spirit of hunting;                                                                                                                  sits, Diana, enthroned.

Till, at last! The gilt magnate                                                                                                              of the crowd’s bent esteem                                                                                                                 (in the gleam of the agate,                                                                                                                   of the agate’s grit-gleam),

whirls a rouge for the pedant                                                                                                               at its caperous charge;                                                                                                                      the illusion-divergent                                                                                                                             for the tore-beast, at large.

The wide smile of a victor                                                                                                                   bears the toreador,                                                                                                                                 to the thundering spector:                                                                                                                 the arena-toror.

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About christopherwyoung

poet, journalist, perception instrument
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