Looking at a painted roof tile
we could speak about paths,
gnarled branches, disfigured fingers,
the beckoning of nails, leaves and breezes.
Instead, you say
I like to linger on the microcosm,
my 'myopic utopia', and you -
- you like to stick pins in bubbles
and watch the soap sting my bifocals.
In this age of self examination
you demand I look up, only
when I'm unable to.
If I don't see the wood for the trees
at least I know you do.
05
