breasting the curb

on the coast of Maine, in a sunny window, 
i sipped and doodled, my affection looming 

when into view came the mail under a woman's arm, 
tossed to the seat of her car

she started up, twisting her torso
to traffic with the lift of birds out over the water

and as this happened, in the clear Maine light
at the edge of town, the islands drew up
and the air lapsed from all the surrounding it must do

and my concentration became a trap for eels,
full of murky holes, 
allure for anything slippery



© Copyright 2001 Peter Chapman

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