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a floor covering made of drugget.
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“Formerly, a drugget was a sort of cheap stuff, very thin and narrow, usually made of wool, or half wool and half silk or linen; it may have been corded but was usually plain.”
I like to sit and write on the floor.
Lounge,
Laze,
draw on the floor
…just
be on the floor.
Because everything down there is at and on my level.
Dishevelled,
I scribe lying in fibres.
Let them absorb anxieties
as I imagine that my piece of carpet
is stitched into the very bottom seam of the world.
Exiled into textile,
I’m a rug respecter, check my shoes at the door.
Inspect the flecks that checker the coverings underfoot,
put my bag down on the shag
and sprawl.
Crawl my hands through and over woollen loops,
collect balls of hair and make groups of crumbs.
Thumb catches a bitten and spat fingernail clipping,
Slipping catastrophe into the tapestry,
This loom, a womb…
I sat
and the mat held me.
I’ve sunk sobs into shoelaces,
Sat next to waste bins
Been a face-first disgrace with lips laden in lint.
Put footprint stains on a Persian,
had an aversion of hoovers,
(***and spot removers***)
Browned skin on Summer ground,
relaxed on the flax, stayed a while on the pile,
There was no leaving this weaving!
I love nothing more than being on the floor.
Because from down there,
you can go down
no
further.
