WEBVTT

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Now I'll read from the book of--

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speaking of eyes, I'll
read some more eye poems.

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I love eyes, and fingers, and
hands, and feet in my work,

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and they find themselves
in my poem so often.

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So I'll begin with this poem
that actually a friend of mine

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asked me to write for him.

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A friend of mine
is a photographer.

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And we were down
in Mexico one time,

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and we were walking
down the street,

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and we passed by this
very unsettling scene,

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very unsettling scene.

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He took photographs of it
and I didn't even dare look.

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It was so troublesome for me.

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It was awful.

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It was ugly.

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And then afterward,
about a year later,

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he told me that he had
developed this these pictures

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and put together a project.

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And he wanted me, since I
was there at that moment

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when these pictures were taken--

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he wanted me to write a
poem as a companion piece

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to this project.

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And for a whole year I refused.

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Finally, I was just so
haunted by this image

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that I decided maybe that's
one way to dismiss it,

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to get away from it,
to leave it alone,

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and let it leave
me alone as well.

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So I'll show you
this photograph.

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The poem is called "Horn."

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"By the road in Guerrero
a cattle cargo truck

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stops at an incline with a flat.

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Two brown bulls stand on the bed
bound by the horns to a yoke.

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Each captive, hoof bruised,
and skinned at the talus,

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depending on his
partner for balance.

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At the feet, a
splash of blood fiery

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as a spill of sudden
bubbling down like lava.

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A wound burning
through the wood?

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Not so.

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The left bull's left
horn broke and flew off

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the head like a bottle cap.

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Defected, the horn
dropped into the brush,

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biting through, tip down,
making its first indentation

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on its own.

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Now, the bull's
skull's left unplugged

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like the puckered lip on
a plastic baby made hollow

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by an absent thumb.

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Stone Anahuac gods have
mouths that empty, that round.

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This hole center is
sticky as if the bull

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had stuck its black
tongue inside for comfort.

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The way we tickle the
missing tooth, gum.

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Will they grow another?

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The bull's left
eye, panic struck,

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doubts it, set ablaze with pain.

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The head's third socket shocks
him into thick paralysis.

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The second bull doesn't move,
contemplating a collapse.

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He gazes at his partner, eye
reflecting throbbing eye.

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There is no seeking pity.

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No screwing the horn back on."

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