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It's like a sauna inside our friendship:
there we sit on the smooth slatted shelves,
personalities undressed, intimate,
accustomed to each others' naked selves.

It gets hot in here, but we never sweat
the small stuff. Prolonged heat produces great
hilarity, I theorise, then stretch
yet another tall story out of shape

while you flex your intellect. I reveal
that my bedroom door and windows vanish
while I sleep; that the bus conductress' heels
and ruby lips are out of sync. You swish

an old jumper from your bag (mine, mended
by your hand with an 'invisible' knit)
and wordlessly you cup my cheek. When did
we get so close? I can't see a single stitch.

Published in Moodswing

http://www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/index.asp?id=119