There stood a black knight
with a gun that spit coral flames,
hunting Aristotle’s older sibling
who now is a mutilated bear.
Swallows flying over in disapproval
shaking their fists in rage,
judging not why he was hunting the griffin-bear,
but why did the creature have so many heads?
They couldn’t understand it.
They feared it.
They loathed it.
They envied it.
The hunter, the black conquistador,
whose feather helmet was free in the wind,
Sharpened the blade of his sword and the tips of the coral,
like an apprentice filing a hatchet.
With one quick pull of the trigger,
the corals shot out like lightning from the trumpet gun.
There with its ram, bone, and greek philosopher heads laid
dead the winged beast.
Dead, dead, dead.