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swallow spins like a boomerang from bending fir
to scattered olive and back again

francis——–—the black dog with dusted white holstein paws
sleeps at your feet——–—dawn song echoing across

hay baled fields——–—he hides from the whitening sun
hot as the patch of sweat under your knee

somewhere someone is dying you remember——–— but
see the ache and its grace in frantic flight——–— cracked boughs

the warm stink of matted dog fur——–—moon in morning
and watch the bleached light bleed through thick chorus



Matt Kingcroft is a writer and librarian originally from Edmonton, Alberta. He lives on the unceded territories of the Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh First Nations in Vancouver, British Columbia.




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