Tilting the Lilting

oh you windmill tilters
who skip and run
amuck fly fre/
quently awry
in green and red
checked kilts

and laugh at
the sweep of
history’s torn
and raw
scraped skin

these ruddy pink
forearms of shock
and lack
hold the world,
keep it on some
meandered
muddied track

where an embrace
of wish and wonder,
rarely of cold brass
plundered facts,
pulls us into fields
of lust and misplaced
trust or freeze,

raise your goblets
swill the burnished
liquid please
and toast the twin gods
of wine and wasted
acts so slow
obscene and fat

you so truly good
in your trim
and lilting gait,

your freedom
and your fluid taste
an ultimate stream
running blue
clear and cool

a simple depth
redeems, this lack
of any haste.