Every night I hear the windmills
 
walking. Behind the blades,
the sun closes like a black
 
eye vesseled like an insect’s storm-
 
torn wing. That’s beating
in my head. In sleep, my sheets
 
become the coat of armor
 
that the knight of mirrors
wore: plackart, crest, and collar
 
the blue the reverse of the sea.
 
The horse’s winds still singe
my hands as if a kind of fire—
 
my skin is slate with it.
 
Because the body is a siege
engine, because I charged
 
into the fly-thrummed sky.
 
This is the way that ghosts
talk. Where the windmills walk,
 
wildflowers gnarl in defeat.