Its been five years since surgeons
Lifted the eyes from
Hazel the Pomeranian.
They say Glaucoma can't win a game
If there's no board to play on.
So her sockets took balm in
Crop circles of brown hair
That grew in her valleys like
Slow questions for ghosts.
Five years but
Groans still hint at pleasure
When a quick tail shivers
Puddles in song.
And when the wind finds her
Sitting petite Buddha on a hill
Hazel
always
b l i n k s.
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