Guts

Guts

Saw while meditating blue
Guts torqued and twisted
In red dust and spent
The rest of the sit wondering
Whose they were — mine,
Or Lorca’s, or the matador
The bull gored, or the bull’s.
Definitely not mine. Definitely
The matador’s, who knew
Even as he died he would die
A legend. Lorca had a lot
Of guts, too, standing up
To fascists to die on his feet.
Why is it we see such things
As guts torqued and twisted 
In dust just when we’re trying 
Not to think of anything? 
Must be something in us 
Telling us to have some guts.