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.
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Thank you for that! The news item I read with the poem stopped at 'but here's an inscription, formed' and I could make head nor tail of it. Your version makes sense of it now. 
Brilliant. But of course, he's a Yorkshireman. 
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