The Point

We’ll begin this time with the atmosphere—I am too tired
to consider the vastness beyond. But you say no,
you are not pointing at that.

I bring the focus closer
and clouds come clear—I see ducks and the obligatory ice-cream cone.

But no, you say, not that not that. The tree, I think, and I begin to try
to figure out which leaf it is you’re asking for – because it is an ask,
it seems to me, though not a big one. What would I want with a leaf?
you say. What interest would I have, now, in that? I am struggling.

I seek the answers in tricks of circumstance. The window, perhaps,
the glass. The very thing I am taking for granted. No.
Your finger, then, the nail upon it. I set up my laugh as I search your face.
Is it that? I ask. Your head is shaking, side to side, your eyes are sad with decline.

I am firmly in the room, the walls are puce, the smell a distraction
from the truth of it. My laugh is still waiting.
It must be, then, the cells of you. The failing, flailing cells of you
dividing, slowly slower. Your hand, still pointing,

wavers. Your heart beats on. Take care of the pieces, you say,
look to the future. I follow your point backwards up your arm and on
to your stubbled face. It searches mine for answers
I am looking to you and your pointing to provide.