The bull who bars the gate to heaven
remembers you from an instant
ago, when he stepped onto a New Mexico road
and you failed to hit the brakes.
You’re still adrenaline-charged as you confront
him again: flesh so hard it crumpled
your sedan’s hood, a skull that made
glass snow of your windshield,
and horns that pinned your hand
to the leather seat. Nobody but him
is fit to weigh your heart,
but he only stands at heaven’s gate, still
as he stood on the lonely road,
daring you, now and then, to make a move
and knowing you can’t help but barrel on.
