Study

With each wrist flick, each finger tremor, comes
the singing of silver bracelets on your arm.
they toll each fevered gashed stroke, and calm
with whisper chimes furrowed lines throwing crumbs
of lead in a fine sprayed wake until they soften
to ghost lines, like sable-brush strokes on the paper's
surface, whispering away like the vapours
of your wrist music: thus you draw with an often
messy scattish jangle, then a hymning
of faintness, while every scrabble of your hand
is haloed by ritual bells, and your limning
work inscribed in smudged dust is a grand
gesture, a cracked lead scribble array
of black and white, and every shade of grey.