Grafton

Hardly had I died
when I found myself driving
on a dirt road north of Canaan.

It was almost night or morning
but you could sense the fog
climbing through orchards
up the flanks of a mountain.

A system of fences receded—
perhaps a riding school—
and lush fields fell back
where the corn stood tense
and absent, like soldiers.

The forest asserted itself.
Beech and ash, then pine.
White moths shot by like sparks.

If this is limbo, I asked
(your presence was beside me),
why are there so many signs—
Lorimer Six Miles; Farm Machinery?

As always, you answered with silence,
but you touched my cheek
so gently I could feel
the whorl of your fingerprint.

Copyright © 2008 D. Nurkse All rights reserved
from The Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission