paul & i call socially on one another on nothing street

the lanky fingers of him, like a cat;
i long to trickle and dance through
park benches in mid-november
and in his hands i see myself dancing.

his wide white face is like a snow
goblin. i whisper, a wind in the
himalayan mountains. he is an
unimpeachable snowman. i laugh.

untimely secrets, left under armchairs
where the dusty wood meets the green plush,
and on doorsteps where the grimy street
meets the cobwebs growing up. can i lose you?

his slow mouth thinks up a smile while
children and dust-rabbits play in the
carpet of his winding mind. he gives me
self-containment in a box with string in
the nicest way a friend knows how.