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.