Matter

In the space between commas lies matter. 
It comes en masse
and acts as a clear divider, sometimes a screen
that filters out non-matter
before, behind.

A fly swatter comes to mind though I don't know why.

The world, as matter, may appear either rounder or flatter 
and is there to touch
like the Colonel's chicken on a platter.

 Yes, we eat too much.

 Our hands, being thumbed, are prehensile.
Thus,  can misers clutch 
a coin
and mechanics fiddle with a clutch
or pipe made of metal.

 Sometimes a touch causes matter to lose control, 
like a spring spring off 
("the handle" is one way to put it, most feelingly)
when, of course, there is nothing to say,
except to curse.

It's a sorry day 
when what matters most flies away, leaving broken hearted 
the unwanted party who stays.
Still, matter attracts other matter.  

Like a rock or stone, matter bogs down in inertia,
prefers to sit where it stands,
even if alone.

All matter has commercial value. 
Even glands
and organs may be harvested and sold
like horseshoe crabs. 

But the self is tricky to sell,
whether hard sell or soft,
since the self when treated as matter
likes to retreat 
like matter to its own black hole
from which escapes
not even a particle of light
or a save-of-face.