Poem in which there are hooves Greg, gently mashing the keys of a Steinway. Or Greg, brow furrowed, struggling to grasp a toothbrush, album, cup. Now Greg in bed: listen for the unconsolable clop that comes each night before his prayers. Unhappy Greg, remembering the touch of things, people. His mother's face. Has he not … Continue reading Two poems by Tristram Fane Saunders