Lenny, you’re a deft circle. Lenny, you’re a square. Lenny, do you know how the pavement shifts when you walk along it towards me? Lenny, don’t you see that the way ahead – if not impossible, impassable – is more than a little obstructed with soup cartons, green-handled knives from Monoprix, high street play mats and soft toys from Ikea? Lenny, tell me again about the time you got into the back seat of the wrong car outside the station, how your mother discovered you more than once on the newsagent’s front step in your dressing gown and Spiderman slippers and how you found your way home, torch in hand, from the leaning gravestones of the Jewish cemetery. Lenny, don’t take this the wrong way, you know I don’t want anyone else but you. Lenny, you can call me any time, I want you to. Lenny, I need to watch your feet skitter across the sheet as you dream; I want to write down the place names you mutter somewhere below breath, below sleep. Lenny, I’m going to try hard to understand all the voices you carry beneath your ash-coated ribs. Lenny, I see the sun is a ball and that we are all just lines across the face of it – we swerve then burn if we get too close, we watch the dark spots and flares and think we know where they start and how they’ll end. Lenny, we’re only shapes in the shapeless scheme of things and this geometry we nurture is more than enough for me. Lenny, I do hope you believe me; it’s what I wanted to say last week when you jumped into the lake. Lenny come up and we’ll talk this through. You’re my circle and my square – and Lenny, I’m not going anywhere.

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