Speak fine body language:
Haphazard stretchers, you dancers
How summer’s snuck into
Your stoic, winter poetry
Is divine but
To grab is a crime but
To grip is to get it – do you
Flowers sprouting outside
Ten hundred buildings in my mind?
My ten fingers to those chicken
Bones, limp sprigs, garlic bread
Crusts (“Scrape your plate!”)
Hi there, this is great! Really enjoyed it.
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