TRANSFIGURED PIGS

TRANSFIGURED PIGS 

	i.
No changes in the world, Cervantes. 
       Only crippled, self-mocking
Colander helmets—poems pocked 
       with patched, passionate holes—
Lend errant old knights the heart
       to tilt at prudent village girls’ 
Whirly-gig windmills. In the end, 
       everyone still takes

       ii.
To Don Quixote’s stubbornly sad,
      sour, sullen bed, unjust
Wounds leaking, souls leaping free 
      to fly beyond our false sky 
Into the lonesome cosmos. Sancho 
      calls; Quixote replies,
No birds anymore in last year’s nests! 
      Nests? Arrowhead webs

      iii.
Webs of hair which arrest and guide 
      the wayward eye toward life’s
Pungently wet sockets and snares
      of blind eligibility. Once
Two thousand Gadarene swine, by
      Christ changed and deranged, 
Dove into Avernus’s crater lake, dying
      to quiet their roars of desire. 
	
KR, 5.18.2025