yes, I ran into him
a gusty September noon
at the bottom something stirred
sponge-full of what was soaked in
from our few meetings
between us, strange jumbled clues
dead leaves in twisters
a spark? perhaps
I make too much of it
so
Ii
ttle left
of fall since then I've heard
nothing
an austerity of choice
Peter Schjeldahl
HITCHHIKER
Mannerly courthouses on mannerly squares
do not me please
I am the demon hitchhiker
with cold eyes set in my nomad cheeks
By the weeds fringing your town cannon
I recline reading damned French poets
whose energy is pyromania
and phosphorence in your residential streets
