287 South

Took us out of town, out
to the hills and barns and acres stretching
beyond our eyes. We never knew

where the properties stopped
but the split-rail fence on the side
of this gravel road

reminds me of the nail I forced
like a kiss on a stranger
through my hand. I couldn’t write

for weeks but God, I could drive
south out of town and there are no
traffic signals out here

except for one caution light flashing
yellow, yellow
through this evenings death. Yellow.

I’m not driving anywhere
but south – the hay on either side
rolled into beauty. My hand

pulses sometimes, like an old heart
misplaced. I know this.
The caution light sings this way

Article written by

Poetry, prose, and art since 1956.

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