Who can blame the bull?
He’s used to open range.
When he stamps his hoof,
the weak scatter.
His bellow splits mountains.
He cannot help swinging
his head to glare at this cage.
He cannot help the sweep
of his lethal horns.
Why can’t he master
such crimped space?
Even a twinge of fear
may surge through his body
as he spins, kicks, thrashes—
to escape? To shatter
what he cannot understand?
Who opened the door?
Everything here was fragile, precious.
