Peter Chapman Poetry

Returning North

Today the winter light came in from the side
like it does in Hopper, falling around the feet of a man
waiting to cross the street, leaves swirling,
getting the texture of the view.

I looked at boots all day yesterday,
going store to store, trying to see
what boots might say about my doing this,
settling into the icy north, Florida not working out,
a rude surprise, the doubt, my funny eyes;

but as time would tell, things have ways of behaving
that have less to do with you and me
than the bit of cloth given to the prisoner
about to be shot

he ties it round his head, nothing quelled
more than lov misspelled, so rare so true.