i am not my dead dog’s soul

even when the evening song

                                       sends warm chills

down my jellyfish’s (non)spine

                                            the slaughtered swine

grows gills to accommodate the last of the summer wine

                                     i am aware i am not my dead dog’s soul

but it doesn’t stop me seeing my name on his bowl

                             and the leash swings to and fro where my

anorak used to go

                                 wash my hands in a font

                                  smelling the daises

                                                                 or

                                        out for the count

nearing winter’s breath, i now know

                                             i am not my dead dog’s soul

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