Peter Chapman Poetry

Eastport Sky

The clouds through the old windows
of the coffee shop spell:

It's a pity she never got to know me.

Then shift, implying:

But not that I never got to know her.

The branches sift my ideology.

East to west phone lines go, inviting birds to grip the language.

The land comes up and opens in my eyes. The horizon
is a horn, softly in the morning air.

Birds scatter, feeling their odd privilege.
Trees begin to bend my way. Ice creaks
open. Sails brighten. Boats slant to the wind.
Voices break off the town's old walls.

Luff and roach spank.

The coffee and that mischief smell.

Going won't be easy but what the hell.