Think of Quixote riding
his nag he imagines
a steed, toward a windmill
he imagines a monster
his joyful and beautiful
truth at that moment before
he hits.

Then think of him after
broken and bruised
on the ground
blinking through his bent
cardboard visor
dazed, the sun in his eyes
as Sancho says, See?

This is where we are now.
We can squint and see
a windmill, and ourselves
old crooked men
and we can lay our heads
down in the agony of the dry
dust before us or we can see
what he sees, a windmill
and our own aching bodies
that just a moment ago soared
(across the plains under an unending
arch of sky)
as proof of the changeling child
the enchanting power of monsters
and the truth of our own
dear dream.

————————————————————————————————

Right Madness

The sunshine on the hill
piled with pretty rock houses
built on bones under a sky
so blue it kills, or at least holds
mute over suffering, is why I like
the woman’s smeared red lipstick
twisted face and walking talk
as she scurries sideways under sculpted
trees, past tables of happy diners
like me.