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she was lovely like stone
alabaster
with green veins
throbbing with sleeping blood
half a hundred gods
on a cloud
clapped
as she walked swaying her hips
and not even her head
no
and not her mouth
a swollen tropical fruit
her breasts - exactly
she had such breasts
you had to stop
and howl to the sky in adoration
they were like two fraternal moons
stolen from Saturn's sky
oval - upraised
and Hephaestus shoeing horses at the smithy
complained that she was cheating on him
the fool
From Mancha
The wind caught in the arms of mills mocks the drama
of minutes floating across the sky. Don Quixote of the elongated
sun's shadows rested his chin on his hand - his gaze dull.
A windmill. A windmill. Rosinante with a bony jaw gathers
crickets and eats because they look and smell like grass.
And while in the bushes Sancho Pansa ravishes a girl
who within her thick red body harbors Dulcinea's
defenseless collarbones - Don Quixote confronts a giant.
And wins. Chittery green music splits Rosinante's
gaunt ribs.