Putting our Heads Together

Putting our Heads Together
I don't think he sees me

Sunday, May 22, 2016


Don Quixote de la Mancha
would never tilt at these towers
that dwarf Dutch ancestors.
No cloth laced wooden blades
at which to take aim,
just edged steel, spinning swords
splitting wind in twain,
separating energy from air.
Arms atop spires
the color of sun bleached bone
scattered in sparse dry grasses.
Inorganic crosses arms wide,
spinning hypnotically,
enthralling witnesses and martyrs,
as cattle and pronghorn
worship, heads bowed,


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