The Infinite Friend’s Field Manual

First lesson: if you were entirely natural,
you’d spread like moss—cool-fingered, slow and sure—
the ground forgets its edges, starts to sink,
a bog rehearses swallowing, blink by blink,
and a horse—bit ticking time between his teeth—goes under.
But you are not moss. Left lone, you sour.
You twitch at bus stops, growl near pears,
invent small crafts, make pocket repairs.

Making friends? Paperwork and heat.
You staple on a smile; the lights hum.
“What do you do?” “What songs?”—you stall;
half the panel ghosts, the rest don’t call.
They pencil “sometime,” dialect for dusk—
may your torch cough smoke, may the batteries rust.

Philosophers draw shapes. Keep it spare:
a friend’s an arrow pinning promised air—
not meant to wound, but to tack the map
where you said you’d go and always lapped.

“Be yourself,” the pamphlets preach at two.
If you were fully you, your phone would blue
to water, drown you kindly in your bed.
So mint a few faces, trade a joke for bread;
forget which face could drink from any tap.
Let someone watch you pour cereal; wrap
a city’s name the wrong way round your tongue—
small proofs that say: you’re here; you’re young.

Friendship is impossible—thus done.
We climb a ladder no one says is hung.
Practice crooked rites with both your hands;
a third thing walks you past the stare—
soil, chord, soup, dice; let work insist,
let clay refuse, let soaked beans hiss.

Name the place and time. Don’t let it roam.
“Tuesday, 7:15—the dumpling place we know
that smells of wet dog.” One lap, one drink—then out.
Print the end-time large so the lock stops doubt.

Bring permissions—proofs in citrus light:
a tangerine; a photocopied poem.
“Watch my bike while I wee?”—tiny trust;
trade small blessings and call it just.

Tolerate b-roll: queue, wrong turn, rain.
If every meet must glitter, you’re at the wrong fair.
Be mirror-small: keep colours; don’t efface.
When hurt, speak plain; when angry, brief your case.
Watch more than ask—how they tip, make room,
how they shoulder a child away from doom.
Use the phone like a footbridge—step off;
don’t build a house from signal.

Offer one true line—no flood, one stone:
“I hate parties; I statue to the bone.”
If they bring coats around that weather, fine;
next time, hand over a map with weather pencilled in.
Be the one who rings the bell, sets crisps.
Lose a few on purpose.
Live where you’re findable: a desk, a board,
your handwriting, a door that opens toward.

Turn: none of this is cure or law.
Rites performed in rooms with taped-off floor,
where briefly all the stubby candles catch.
Each friend arrives a courier with the latch—
the shopkeeper sets a mug down like an answer,
the flatmate slides two eggs under the door,
the stranger by the ashtray fastens your week
with one true sentence braced between your teeth.
Two idiots press their ears to the world and “Three.”
Click—pocket flint.

Advanced practice: going down is plain.
Take them under without any speech or frame.
Stay.
Bring oranges, headphones, an uncharged phone as relic.
Sit. Don’t tidy. Build a fort if the gods are willing.
Most aren’t rescued; they’re walked beside.
When it’s your turn, let them carry your name wide
like a match cupped hard in a crosswind’s teeth.
Adopt the stray. Endorse the paper hat.
Keep the cup warm on the table’s breath.

What kills it? The spreadsheet in your coat;
networking dressed as prayer. And most of all,
narrative—the itch to arc and end.
Refuse that leash; let sense occur, not bend.
Speak while it happens, in the air’s own slang,
which fades as soon as humans let it hang.

—

Coda for after: retire a joke like a jersey.
Keep the receipt with their handwriting.
Learn the cheap salad perfectly, leaf by leaf.
Bless their prospering; curse—gently—your old grief:
May you be spared the version I required.
Then visit the shop that sells nothing desired;
stand among useless objects till one speaks.
Outside, the field is a patient green that leaks.
You and a not-moss someone, knees in mud,
tug boots, spill laughter; the suction thuds—
and up comes the frightened horse, all steam and flood.