Finishing It by Simon Armitage
I can't configure
a tablet
chiselled by God's finger
or forge
a scrawled prescription,
but here's an inscription, formed
on the small white dot
of its own
full stop,
the sugared pill
of a poem, one sentence
that speaks ill
of illness itself, bullet
with cancer's name
carved brazenly on it.
Time travel is real....apparently
Growing up without going to shops
acquaintance pleading poverty to scam me ....
