Peter Chapman Poetry

facsimile

though I have the fact of me, if i could otherwise
resort to be
and wake up, altered amiably
how might my way of seeing go, the reducted me, the new know?

would my smile curve any differently
or could my gem-stuck nose
sniff
the smooth dimensions of your clothes?

i suppose the harm in transmogrifying
can be no worse
than being born until you're dying