Trying to Love a Bullfight

It’s not the death that really upsets you
Death is, after all, a practical whore
It is not the midday sun that scorches you
That is what all the wide-brimmed hats are for
It is not the cold, stone bench that hurts you
Cheap cushions can be purchased by the door
It’s the ritual death in small degrees
That brings you down, with the bull, to your knees