Two sleepers in the pine cabin, both us,
horizon in the window like a spirit level,
Ferris Island with its single lamp, August,
annoying whoosh of the gold flies, suddenly imperceptible,
a lull covering us like a nubby cotton blanket.
Perhaps it was then I lost the skinny thread
that fastens the needles to their sticky cones,
the insouciant cloud to its ponderous shadow.
The coast was framed on her lips, but it was dusk.
I couldn’t grasp how her breath held it, almost spoken.
I will never know who I am, never have a clear mind,
but moonrise will come, and the stumbling moth,
whiter in darkness, groping for the outlines of a face.
D. Nurkse is the author of 10 books of poetry, including The Fall, Burnt Island, The Border Kingdom, and the forthcoming A Night In Brooklyn, all from Knopf. He received a 2009 Literature Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters.
*Photo courtesy of AstridWestvang.