who am i kidding?

the crook warders
the same as ill
when what
as if something fishy sustains
that the ant in
or not at all

skimmed on the surface as lifeless
as tree leaves which curl.

or pheasants the same dears
as breadcrumbed postmen
delivered doorstep
by that which is pure

their smock, their curdled eyes
beneath that lumped fabric
of irish green

pennants death
the seeming of which is faint
almost lurid
she would say

though the out of it
interests more keenly,
talking soft water
to the shore

though crabbed
and here the jagged edges
sand away
at those who knew
pretended to.