Last night I dreamed my old poetry tutor took me for dinner in a windmill. The building was an open structure, an exciting design. I was looking forward to eating exquisite food. We climbed to the second or third floor and I realised the mill was made out of cardboard, shaking in the wind, and very dangerous.
Then I had to put gloves on and serve the customers.
Something fell away
I can cut a pattern from your hands
I can pin your shadow to the cloth
I cannot stop you from outgrowing this life