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190 Big Dog Photo In memory of Primo (Fairhaven, Isle of Skye 1995 – 2007) I Your black wavy coat shone like the sun inside out. You always smelled like sun, too. Black sun, clean-black as the afterimage of a falling leaf. II I apologize for what I said in the poem “Dogs Out of The Kitchen.” The kitchen is a mess without you. I am so sorry not to have recognized one of your charitable works. You were a canine Teresa of Avila, Saint of the Clean Floor, but with a better temperament. III I’m waiting for you to romp into my sleep, that dream strewn meadow where the wildflowers are just a memory now. There was a path where I walked uphill with Pauline through the Indian Paintbrush. There was a stream where Zabi pinpointed her steps along the verge. You didn’t know those places, urban and urbane as you were. The afterlife has its attractions. If you are there now, I’m willing to adopt a new belief system. 191 I would trade some of my years if you could use them and be in this life again. My arms rehearse your shape, brush along the angle of your ears, circle your deep chest. This is what the catechism warned about, attachment to things other than god. Love of another body without distinction and with pure delight. ...

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