Kleinsong & other poems
It’s like It’s like this Like a girl who won’t Like a girl switching lights on/off with her elbow Not able to type To wash To pick up those dropped frozen peaches Like this I could say I could search for it At Finchley Rd she’s a crumbly wafer and can’t admit Though they all want to hear Though only if useful Though hands smeared with ink are ugly, unsafe She clicks in the cold But I don’t know how else
New poetry by Annie Katchinska.