peter jerrim

the bullet’s a book furrowing
moonlight into occupied france
grazing the slough of lives long gone

down lanes of arcady
bared by the ploughboy’s gaze

look back from your carriage
the moonlight’s streaming
through poplars satyrs in marble

a temple glimpsed by poussin
remember that cold voluptuary

you brushed leaves from her lips
then kissed them
there was no fire but

what burnt within you
it still burns will burn forever

strafing the under storeys
blazing with homeward desire
the bullet’s a book you’re reading it

in hospital corridors at night too late
to examine for tracers of life