but it’s as thin as…
as thin as…
ventured Florence, crossing and winding
her pretty legs. Her dark eyes

are ovals of infinite charm.
And Dougal felt, as he often did,
that he might topple into them and be wholly unfound
and he’d find in there the other lost mutts
who fly and go in undulating packs,
forgetting why and longing
in a putty-coloured piece of brain,
to be owned again,
and be more than what they have become –
nothing but her foaming happiness
rising in her as a swarm of barking pooch.

No, thinner than paper, said Dougal sadly.
I’m afraid there’s nothing there at all,
we make it all up,
it forms in front of us as we go.