Bewick

Here’s Thomas peering close at how the feathers lie, Thomas wearing out his eyes, checking for the bone on bone alignment, the cutting tool he’s honed himself, precise as a surgeon’s . He knows the blade can slide, that wicked sideways feint- I’ve baulked at myself- how it can skid and pierce a vein… As for how it hums with life, this print no bigger than his palm, I’ve tried for that as well, drawing in the garden, nasturtiums florid spill, great globes of alium, elusive evening light. The smallest mark and it’s all wrong. The smallest mark and it’s all right.