Why?

Why to touch what has
settled into a coil -
why to add to a stagnation?

I see you crawl
around your point -
slowly you’re inching away.

Not further. Not behind.
Elsewhere, on the finite globe,
the mind that has us, two thoughts.

Why to look through the same lens 
when I want it further
and you need it larger?

These venomous trails,
that were once our ballads
are broken compasses, that’s all.

I don’t mind waking up to a blur.
Why do I care to clean
your glasses?

Limited

I’m limited to you -
a lake you pass by
and absent-minded,
throw pebbles at.

You do not care
for the momentary ripples
they create -
you think they’d rob me,
expanding my dimensions.

Yet within the nebulous
you hunt yourself.

We're Too Poor This Christmas

We’re too poor this Christmas.
All we own is a breath,
long, tedious and green,
a piece of bunting, a futile chain.
We hang it between
two distant numbers on a clock.

And then as we look at it for long,
we get creative.
With a pair of lurid scissors, we chop
this decoration into hyphens;
we use the little lengths
to contrast the grotesque walls
of the rooms that occupy 
us.