The hands and the dull mouths conspire within
this orange twilight, where giraffes of shadow 
check them in motion: textures of hair and skin
disguised beneath a common birthmark, mated
on ritual boards, yet all the night their widow.
Here, in what speech, what gods are celebrated
as quietly as prayer? Though shoulders lean
to secret masses and no sun, between
these painted lights, nothing is consummated.

Pinned upon stillness and perpetual dying,
charcoal on ochre walls, three toros kneel
- naming the place - even in death defying
the priesthood of their girl-thighed matadors:
moment of lies, of consummation, seal
of blood on power.  Are the symbols yours, 
oh nervous hands, vague mouths and mating eyes?
Are yours the raging beast, the planted thighs,
the ecstatic blade, oh blind conspirators?