The day we visited the windmill
I began to wet the bed. My father’s
Creaking midnight tread pulsed
Shockwaves through my sleep:
I was back beneath the mill,
bewitched by its sails, heavy,
heavy with motion, four angels
of death stencilled on grey.

You laughed once at my phobias until
the night you came late to bed and your
fingers pulsed shockwaves through my sleep.
I woke and saw my terrible angels, screamed.
Then your body became motion, became
Warmth that entered me, like pulses
of life surging through the grey.

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