The Point I

Did you see that precise point where our lives
Split cleanly and curved away?  It was the same
House you remember, those same walls, yet 
The individuals within never touched circumference, 
Didn't interlock.  Did you see the precise point of
Incision in the skin, that nasty cut you dug that kept
Burning?  Or did you prefer to ignore these things, 
Draw a big enough blanket of booze and cigarettes 
Over your head, enough laugher to score-out that
Intermittent noise of questioning?  It was a masterly
Sealing-in of knifepoints, turningpoints, points of order,
Stickingpoints enough to prevent a tongue from talking.
There was no spillage, all bleeding was staunched by much
Carpet brushing and evasions of glance.  There was so
Much indifference in the air that the individuals faded
To wallpaper and on a quiet day, you couldn't tell
Any life was lived within those walls at all.

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