Peter Chapman Poetry

My Empirical Hierarchy

                       at the farmers' market

Here's a thin gal with intellectual hair, talking across a small table to an
handsome man of downplayed flair.

I watched her mouth make beautiful sounds, imagining her folds a fable of hair speaking for her revealed mouth,
a hidden palette in the mossy south.

Her straw hair came to her nose, and her hands were bony with what one
might suppose were transactions
ahead of our cool guy's heat, a loopy sort of Pete and re-Pete, this angular
vernacular symposia of sweat,
the digging deep sex unhappened yet.

Outside the wind blows with winter's first chill, the cold stalls of veggies thrill.