There is Room for Poetry

in the gaps between the goo 

you scoop up out of the pan

and whilst the suds in the sink

circle once… twice…


(those soapy suds

nothing can rush them)

and even yes even in that split  

second when you leap up/swear/

knock over your chair/exhale 

all at once because the battery

in the powerpack you’re charging 

on the countertop has just erupted 

into flame, even there, right at the 

dead centre heart of that lithium-



                       swirls poetry

—a little puff of it


        just for

          once to hold 

                          a non