Peter Chapman Poetry


I was in a small newspaper office in a dark, small town.
There were, from me I suppose, explanations of my working there as a means to a literary career.
There might have been shapes of people around, there probably were.
Then a woman named Darcy appeared, and I would recall her vividly
as you will in the first minutes after waking.

She was clothed then not, an apostrophe, freckled and slender, with a lovely rear.
We sat, clothed, and ate something like yogurt and apples
and I felt the heat of her thigh and was startled by that.

The dream then the undream.

All day I ran to meet, in any way possible, my Darcy.