Peter Chapman Poetry


my head is a husk admitting the light
in fields when the grass is gold
against all the blue rivers

i'm the indebtor of sand and shells
pods and cones and little skulls,
chestnuts i work from their noily meat
to have their fooled mohagany

why is this my natural flair?

dreams flutter like a pretty dress, caught to the ad
on a barn somewhere, so you wouldn't guess
to look at me, my longings abide in stones
or the chime of grass with the wind going through
the look you get of me, in you