Sunday, September 23


watch I my dog die
in this empty house from there
where she does not leave the kitchen

but stays

trotting back n forth on three legs
with bleeding paw confetti-ing
poppies on our kitchen floor, just her

blurred eyes as your

brown grey pities; licking her tumour
that burst ago a week; no cone; no life
left outside of the tail she waves to yr entrance

tail wags blood strokes

& I mop it up so she don’t ave to lie in it
‘you shouldn’t ave to lie in yr own blood’
a thank-you tongue above her red beard

‘I’m sorry for all of the times I was mad at you’

no food or piss no water just death stench;
there’s more claret to clean; limp small metres;
rest; ‘I’m sorry, darlin, I dunno what to do’

& her eyes are all that is there & the tiptiptipping of blood

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