Two poems by Tristram Fane Saunders

    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 suffered? Has he not served his time? Then … Continue reading Two poems by Tristram Fane Saunders