On the Verge

I saw his cracked-egg body, a flash
on the verge of a motorway, half
hidden in browning grass; his head
twisted around so his black eyes stared
back towards his own past; his neck
fixed in a ring of blood. I thought
I saw him alive the next day; we spoke,
and spoke again last Sunday. But 
it can’t have been him; I saw his body,
empty, unreal as a ghost.