Fall 2007 • Vol. XXIX No. 4 Poetry |

Hitching to Mount Hebron

1 We waited under the black oak and after five minutes or an hour, we were too just-married to tell time, a blue-gray DeSoto with its lights still on slowed and we gasped and grabbed our possessions— knapsack, water bottle, two A&P bags—but the driver mirror-glanced, sped up, 2 and we ran a few feet, kicked a pebble back in place, and resumed watching the heat sheen waver on that camber between pine and ash where the road was; once, you reached over to pick a polka dot beetle from my neck—brilliant blue, with red eyes—and I had never seen one 3 except in dreams, and felt nothing: the sun was rising, the leaves changed from being leathery shields to almost transparent, we sensed the first claims of the great heat 4 and we unfolded our map of Cerro Dolor, the immense mountains indicated by a funnel of convex lines, the granitic passes by ) (, the boreal forest a green crosshatching; we wondered, were we in such a zone, and tried consciously to feel los

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D. Nurkse is the author of ten collections of poetry, most recently A Night in Brooklyn (Knopf, 2012).

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