They Will Sew the Blue Sail

My Life in the ’90s | Christian Schlegel

My mother’s standing dim-lit in the hall,

talking to Rennie on the telephone.

David takes off my shoes in Bynden Wood.

The day before we’d laid a path of rocks

through Thomson’s Run into the pine-cone dell,

beyond the marsh the guidebook calls a fen.

The fire creeps gingerly, not like a god

but like a boy gone home to bed with books.

Perhaps you are, as I am, harsh in love.

Atop the day is lacquer; heat obtains,

a silence into which a landscape rolls.

I am behind, hauling a log off-trail

through someone’s yard. An amber weathervane,

the wind below the vane, the gnats above.