In the Third Sleep

by Elana Wolff

(after Kay Sage)

We were stationed, out of the picture,
in the frame.
We didn’t get a wider view,

a longer look
at fortunes—beyond the architectural

shards, the craft, the cracks,

the stasis.
There were no speaking
lines in the Third, no tableau vivant.

The verdant meadow
flecked with flowers, burbling
stream and people

didn’t make the cut: the smell of it—
mephitic—
tailed us to waking.

In the Third Sleep

by Nash Lott

(in response to Kay Sage’s painting “In The Third Sleep,” 1944)

forgive my inattention.

span the void

to reach me, I’m out
of SNRIs
they’re saying something
about sheets
about sails
I’m on some rail

tracking down sleep

dope, I mean—weed-
s grow on synapses, clutter
the yard, front
-al cortex, cannabis
over chaos

night seconds creep

you’ve caught me
unwashed, pans
around my ankles
after I was
cooked,
before I am
overdone

In The Third Sleep

by Jonathan Bennett

(after Kay Sage)

A red kite makes
off with a sausage roll 

last month in Oxfordshire

And I for one am
having none of it unless

all hell breaks free and it soars

From muffins to
mountain tops and back
again we are delighted to meet

Our maker in flight
our paths we trust and follow
our pride no grief so it lands fairly

Or squarely behind
a baby on board caution
stickers to tribal conventions

What if the tailgater
dipped backed in for ketchup
divebombed for crisp snow apples

Made a whole shebang
out of it blasted smithereens
God least then we’d know for sure