Sarah St Vincent Welch #114 fragment

tap of keys in separate rooms

fractured shadow on closed blinds

thinking on poetry’s materiality 

(what’s that?) want to cook it up,

eat it, take a bite, but the element’s

bust and the oven’s dirty, need

to chop chop and shop for the wok

so ordered spicy take away

want to sew that materiality,

with a runaway machine,

or build it, craft a folly,

laughing and curliqued

on top a fringed umbrella

but

it’s a hobbling day

with a strapped foot

rustled up pain killers

a walk would have solved it

so watched a film on 

the power of gossip

found a possible move

for a story in it, glimpsed the twist

sideways, thinking somewhere

else, put distraction on pause

and jotted it down,

stopped everybody’s fun,

they’re used to it