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Sausage dog, long and looping.

A bridge, stretched between stout supports, bowing.

Your aeroplane nose flies west, somewhere I’ve never been,

connecting me to a dream she had of one of this breed –

but a breed apart – a dachsund that loved unconditionally,

and so could be taken to heart, unreservedly.

Cynophobic, she woke up wanting to have one.

Sausage dog (God spelled backwards), with your

pendulum ears sweeping down to earth,

you could make a vegetarian want to eat you.

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