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.