A sheen of grey-blue rises up
as if a timid ghost – a shadow
in a poet’s lounge [lick-curled

in her bed] – thin-faced – near
to equine – from her forelock
down to her pointed muzzle –

but never a quick bet at t’track
against unsighted hares under
floodlights – she knows not to

take stakes – she’s sure of that
One lap of her garden is quite
enough – slack – no mad rush

She finds her still-warm centre
without a sound – no fussing –
as if my duty hasn’t been done

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