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If she holds her arm out to him
and says it’s the length of affection
he will ask if it’s the same with string.

The parcels she gives him,
are not hearts in brown paper,
not trees that lean to the left to catch the love of the wind,

not cricket balls turning
or evenings spent smoking
or quiz sheets correctly inked in.

But pieces of things
caught up in her arms
things she thought he might need,

her time, some skin,
some songs
and metres and metres of string.