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.