Cork, for me, is a litany;

hospice    radium    palliative

the Mercy    the Regional    the Union,

and a bag of blood that falls,
drop by slow drop, into the vein.

The wrench of his sitting up
is like the sound of a whisper,
he’s too weak to continue on,
my father, in the comer bed of
the old Lord Mayor’s place
which looks out to the marsh,
the sweep of the river
and the wrought iron bridge
where terns, small seabirds, settle.