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
...