One from the Wallace Variations which can be found numerously in this category.
Weather of bulls
The sun recovers everything again,
just like you always say the sun is doing.
It is as if there never was a storm last night
thumping its fist of rain against the cinema;
that swept yesterday’s news into the sewer drain
whilst pushing grunt aplomb into the window frames.
The wind flipped through the pages of
your complete poems, to read the lines about itself.
It relishes panache, with which you magnify
its motion through the hair of lacustrine women
& loves to read how bulls that drag the sun
pull without pause & ask nor offer praise.
i know my rationale for doing that
& thinking this, or thinking that & doing this
: it is to try & know with outside, inside out;
to retrieve the irretrievable of the nude
in the shell, ferrying those sinking, repeatedly;
who rush astride themselves like legless bulls of dawn.
i’d have those bulls of dawn
never return, to know the shape of night.