Most Read... Rebecca WattsThe Cult of the Noble Amateur
(PN Review 239)
John McAuliffeBill Manhire in Conversation with John McAuliffe
(PN Review 259)
Patricia CraigVal Warner: A Reminiscence
(PN Review 259)
Eavan BolandA Lyric Voice at Bay
(PN Review 121)
Joshua WeinerAn Exchange with Daniel Tiffany/Fall 2020
(PN Review 259)
Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Next Issue Kirsty Gunn re-arranges the world John McAuliffe reads Seamus Heaney's letters and translations Chris Price's 'Songs of Allegiance' David Herman on Aharon Appelfeld Victoria Moul on Christopher Childers compendious Greek and Latin Lyric Book Philip Terry again answers the question, 'What is Poetry'
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
Reader Survey
PN Review Substack

This poem is taken from PN Review 160, Volume 31 Number 2, November - December 2004.

Baines his Dissection David Kinloch

for Donny O'Rourke


1 A Procession

For hours now: a little scraping tear,
scratchings, a dab, a blot; then it runs
again - blue, red - coagulates tired
eyes, swims in tears: the quill tears up
the grain of paper, reflecting it away
like skin, finger-forceps grip tense
the flap, scalp through deep fascia
to the muscles of sense.
That scrape again. Is it me
or the witter of the small barboni fish
hung from cabin beams whose thin blue light
dries out like rotten wood?
The parchment heaves up
with its choppy words, once sheathed
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image