String 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,
And they look broken hearted You take your hand, square as a slice and place mine in it. Someone says ‘that’s filling for you,’ and I think of eating in the street,
Must we share another error Maybe it's the knife left lying on the lino, the car boot which wouldn't quite close, the tattooist repeat carving, 'Keith Keith'