In the Third Sleep

by Annick MacAskill

(after Kay Sage) 

I remember this place
sails rising quotation marks

and little houses among
made smaller by time of course

partially unfolded
by the tepid milk of oblivion 

and the grandparents are missing
the punctuation of warblers too

this new strain of quiet
meaning unlocked

in the somnolence of unmeaning
speaking no longer assumption

but some lingering responsibility
frilly in its unthinking knowing

like lichen like the worn sails
of an uncle’s disintegrating boat

home among the enveloping
plumate desolation

of the sandy grey and blue
of this progesterone-deep sleep

so I’ll sit and wait
for my people