Because a bat swallowed his sleep, the farm boy
stared as light flickered according to the breeze:
windmill’s rusted blades spinning between
full moon and the boy’s bedroom window.

Each time the dog that guarded the drive barked
to keep shadows at bay his body was shaken,
clutched in the hands of an enraged father,
shrieking, like metal grinding against metal.

The windmill’s chain rattled and he felt himself
hanging from it, rubber boots brushing concrete,
shoulders scraping a lever he forgot to pull
to disengage a gear so night’s liquid stayed

underground. The breeze swelled and frenzied
blades drove the pump until the trough became
a waterfall, yard and lane a lake, fields a sea.
He knew it was his fault the farmhouse sank

as cellar, kitchen, stairs, bedroom took on water.
By midnight the roof was driftwood, by three
the windmill a skeleton. At sunrise the sun
was a yellow bubble miles above his mouth.