Memory

Over the night a bull Whispers into a coal :Unmeant in the stall to sit and plate, But sixth, with all the senses, To consume— Incorporate— those signal Impressions which are (we know) its fate: In explosions, in hard strides, His coattails fly; to bits, to friends Craven and brave. Sadness undulates at their back. His lilt's a cotillion of flies. But how he charges, he commits! Each to the next. It seems unfair, a target lies Between its shoulder blades.