Bull in the thorn

a bull pits himself ponderously
- his tonnage offset by thorn-and-air -

against hawthorn's bare, resilient
branches that whip and snap;

he points and positions his bodyparts
to skewer and scrape himself;

the main thrust's at his chine,
where the coarse nap of the neck's

ginger rug lies deepest
- he yanks his head from side to side,

fool-eyes rolling for pleasure in pain -
in a blunt combing; and fur-puffs

of ginger blow onto the mud
where he lugs his plastered shanks;

now he grinds the white curls of his brow'
now ribs up chin and muzzle,

even wipes the wet bare-baby pink
mouth and nostrils of foam - the full workout -

with heavy breathing, while a heifer
sniffs his back-end delicately, on spec

© Alec Rapkin