"Floored"
My flung arm hits a barrel
It rocks- it's cardboard- spills out red and blue silver
wrapped chocolate balls, their shock of colour and glitter
shine and roll around, as my weight-ball head,
falls gravely on the floor.
My legs are airy, only my bending knee
can land, graze what's hard.
The shop assistant's thought is an ambulance.
My arm and knee hurt
I test them, bruised not broken, even the chocolates
are not crushed, just scattered.
Like drops of water that keep on running
in rain on glass,
the hollow balls pop up against each other,float before falling.
I'm lifted to my feet by others.
In this after-time of the before-then
the only resolution
is random, colour and glitter.
A conversation in poetry involves a bunch of poets and fellow travellers (e.g. painters, photographers, translators) in an informal conversation taking the form of the work itself; that is, people respond in kind to each other’s creative efforts.
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