Mysterious Poem

What follows is a correspondence on e-mail which is mysterious. I received an e-mail from Luther Hogan (whom I know not), also addressed to Peter Fischl (whom I know not). The e-mail was an effort to sell AutoCAD, but included the poem verses below. I received wo such e-mails with two different sets of poetry verse. What struck me was the quality of the verse---not in terms of punctuation, but the verse is more profound and beautiful than 98% of what I have read in contemporary poetic work. So I copied the verses and attempted to contact Peter Fischl. What follows directly below is that e-mail:

From: petermcguire4@verizon.netDate: 2007/06/21 Thu AM 11:35:50 CDTTo: peterlfischl@verizon.net, Luther Hogan Subject: Poetry>From: Luther Hogan >Date: 2007/06/21 Thu AM 04:12:31 CDT>To: peterlfischl@verizon.net>Subject: AutoCAD 2008 download

HELLOW,THE "POETRY" SHOWN IN YOUR E-MAIL IS NOT MINE.I KNOW, I DID NOT WRITE TO YOU.MY COPYRIGHTED (1994) poem " TO THE LITTLE POLISH BOY STANDING WITH HIS ARMS UP " IS IN 16 MUSEUMS. NATURALLY, YOU DO NOT HAVE THE RIGHTTO TOUCH MY POEM. PERHAPS READ THE COPYRIGHT LAWS.PETER L. FISCHL

Hello,Is this your poetry? I have received two quatrains, both under the guise of AutoCad download. peterlfischl@verizon.net is not even my e-mail address.An explanation would be appreciated.CrunchkinPS: The poetry is strong, but sems to be incomplete or not edited. However, it is good verse. PSS:Having received this verse can I now feel free to edit and incorporate this work into my own?

To mark that square, perhaps: were MÃ and PÃ
ƒRain. We are forced to fly,
>In the woods, close by,
>Figures of light and dark, these two are walking
>End of the comedy.>
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.>
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back>
People might see to be the opening>
Snow haze gleams like sand.>
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream>
That only you and I can know. Les deux>
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe>
The face of a Quos ego),>
Blurring the terrain,>
As if your absence now concluded long ago.>
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.>
Figures of light and dark, these two are walking>
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart>

Here is the remainder of the verses:
XIV. Franz Josef Land: The Amazing Drift of the Tegetthoff
The road, but not far enough ahead
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray—
The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
And off the white smoke swims
Silent patch of ultimate paint.
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
Sought to contrive, intending to express
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
Is the moon to growthey sit with their wives all day in the sun,
To reach out into its own vanishing
The road, but not far enough ahead
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,


Odd, isn't it?