Still at the beginning of this winter endgame illness. The body is a pump, mouth vent bellows. Drains into one place, paws steady on your chest. Face in your mouth, chessgame of nodes. Logic is a cancer, relies only on itself. The first dog will drag you into the open, garden exile. She will rescue you from your mind-yard, tooth fence, white pickets. In a row the branches wave, the world puts out its arms. Put yourself on a leash, wind down to the slowest ticking. Lament for the still-breathing, invert loss of candles placed around burned bone. The temperature of days pulses gently one by one, passing, mould a body with words.

RIP Lucy 2001-2012