They Will Sew the Blue Sail

HALL OF THE WOODS | Sara Nicholson

The pluperfect forms of summer

are wrong—slits of light like wheat.

It is the world that doesn’t speak,

the throat in its chambers

that drones for us. And constellations?

They are smaller flowers that burn

their way into the refrain above me.

My grandchildren, fragrant

with the smoke of their gardens,

speak for me, stand next to me

as I receive this message.

A hall is not methodical,

it is a dark thread.

The stars are those remoter forms

whose eyes are green and pink—

I am unable to see them.

To be a boy again in Switzerland.