Truth Of Windmills Poem by Robert Rorabeck
Truth Of Windmills
Here is a new river, bubbling- making love with
Gold light underneath the apple trees
Where the truants go to get freckled and to steal away from
Each other every day:
Where the Mexicans sleep at the bottom of worthless ladders,
Knowing what they mean to themselves:
And I look up at your Anglicism, Alma, with the neverending
Truth of windmills stuck to the roof of my mouth.
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4/19/2024 4:59:13 AM # 1.0.0.1119
