A Bull

Every day putting a fresh spin on how he maintains that shit-eating grin despite his notoriously thin skin. The quagmire of what-might-have-been. Every day shouldering an invisible tray. Hello, hello. Olé, Olé. His musing on how best to waylay a hiker passing through a field of Galloways. Every day aiming to swat the single fly that keeps tying and untying a knot before taking another potshot. Rolling through the Krishna Valley like a juggernaut. Every day trying to err on the side of standing firm. Foursquare. The singlemindedness of a Berber about to take out a French Legionnaire. Every day surviving by dint of three of his four hooves being knapped flint. Hanging out the bloody bandage of his, hint hint, barber’s pole. His stick of peppermint. Every day his hoofprints in the sand-strewn park have enclosed so much in quotation marks. Not even Job or Abraham, hark hark, is

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