Dorothy Quixote

In dead of blue night
she sits, i think, by the windmill

untilted, waiting for the tornado
from behind four panes of indigo glass.

Her quest for some straw brains,
for some tick-tock tacky talk passion
and
cat-woman courage

is only hopeless when she sleeps
no one knows, but

she always sleeps here

until she wakes up
blue

and crying.

Tomorrow, when the blues are gone
and her four pains have faded into pills

Tomorrow, when the wizard cums
and spills her ecstasy upon this bed

again

she will wear gingham
and Pancho will sing with her
as they head off for another sweet La Mancha.