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The bull has a scheming gleam in his eye. The bullfighter is wearing many buttons. The bull runs in a triangular pattern. The bullfighter is an echo. The bull has just turned four. The bullfighter’s mouth sets as though above an ocean. The bull. The three sticks in his hide. The bullfighter forgets to acknowledge the crowd. The bull is a burdensome law. The bullfighter in front of his girlfriend. The bull at pasture. The bullfighter trumpets. The bull allows for the possibility of growth and change. The swell of the stadium. The bull’s luscious gravity. The great handsome moustache of the bullfighter and all the tireless spinning in the galaxy. The banjo playing. The bull lifts his horns as if to stitch the crowd’s noise together. The bullfighter has a can-opener. The bull’s leaking stride. The bullfighter could build a boat of this. The bull has a pulse. The bullfighter thinking of a smoky basement. The bull confronts the other in language. The bullfighter rolls aside the stone. The bull dreams of snow. The bullfighter belongs to a longitudinal fraternity. The bull self-medicates. The bullfighter can feel his hair growing always. The bull is the sand in the air. The bullfighter is the hooves that stir it. The bull is the patterns they make. The bullfighter, the light, the expectation of evening. The bull finding a new muscle. The bullfighter mid-thrust.
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But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.
Protests in China are shining a light not only on the country’s draconian population management but restrictions on workers everywhere.