Tilting towards windmills

Tilting Towards Windmills

Perhaps there are many ways to parse a dream?

As I tilt towards it, the windmill tilts at me.

I have seen many things to make unicorns wonder

In a strangely horsey idiom.  I have been a stranger

To a language in which I might have been stronger –

Speaking in a pidgin that wilts as much as it can

Before the dangerous logic of a better, farther man.

And to speak of danger, one begins to understand

The oneness of many things one didn’t, ever.

In oneness I began.  In oneness: far more clever than

The serried spine that held me in this place.

And there was a sign of danger spelt across the face,

Younger than I’ll ever be, stronger than I’ll ever –

And the gesture was a lingo, jesting and ingenious.

And yet, you find me here again, propped inside

The house of myself: a house where nothing hides.

And perhaps it’s been a merely latent wish,

The decision to be, waking, but woken, fresh?

Sincerely, then.  Let us curry up the ghosts

Of those who’ve loved and hated, hated most.

Let us be quick with what the silver says

While the gold was sleeping, a glumly-sunken ray.

Sun and moon are hackneyed tropes.

They speak in the language of most, brilliant builders

Of brilliant hope.  Was it silly of me to see, to learn by rote

The way windmills tilt forever, soaped by youth

And whatever else is meant by a lack of use –

The hangman of the earth, vivid with its childhood?

We live between the boasts of these: good extremes –

The death of the man and the death of his dream.