I’m wrapping my story of Bogdan: bullfighter,
Moldovan, aged nineteen or so, inured in choices
inexorably his—or as juries may deem, not his alone.
The livestreams at large show only so much
of a wrestler whose story awaits several wraps,
a Chechnian Kyrghiz Cambridgian youth following
footsteps alight, tying unprepossessing knots of truth.
As symposia go, we glean from the Bogdans
grist for the mill: wrestling, bullfighting, coping
without, friend from afar, werewolf within, hoping
to plumb what tenuous track makes them them and us
more or less us. It’s childs’ play, maybe, the
toying with storylines of no less moment than
the bombing of Boston, the barks at the moon, and
querulous probes as to what we assume, what may be
true, what God only knows: bulls colorblind
charge shimmers and shakes of human design
and thereby remind: we run as well into that
void.
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