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Dog That I Am I sing for the similarity and I moan forthe face, dog that I am, whippet that I was, her face of exhaustion, lines in her forehead, her hair uncombed and unbrushed, the wind in her eyes, she could be from Thrace, from Denmark, I could be from Rome waiting for her command, I could be from Egypt and dogging her and I could be from Spain, a silky wearing a sweater and she with a scarf at her throat and another one over her mouth bending to hold my face up, wearing a herring-bone overcoat with deep pockets and buttons circa 1940, 1950 with black westies on her feet and neat little lapets at the top, the neighborhood of Skinker near a birch tree, only an accident, just a mistake—I scream outright at the likeness. |