Boris Jardine


all that made frowning
curved that ferrous down.
by trope, no fauve,
the temple lust that stamped itself a new foot.
begrudge it that, at least.

winter’s damp in the leg
tramped glades. tramped ancestry,
he called us all atrophies
and, in that way, we are steady.
insides persed, quickly parsed
until ’tis flat.

we gathered ourselves
that the mornings might,
to those parallels of the clear,
the panelled outside flattened too,

the part that is
is exact.

two pheasants
run together for a while.