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June 18, 2013
Nearing dusk, we had almost completed
the rick-stack of damp wood and brush
that would become the funeral pyre.
But it was one of those years:
dry wood was in short supply;
we had none under cover.

Still not completely sure
if Dookie was REALLY dead,
we wrapped his surprisingly supple bulk
in a hand-woven blanket
and wheeled him to the final place
his body would remain
in its present homogeneous state.

With air heavy with dew,
heart heavy with grief,
we placed the gasoline bowl under the pyre,
lit it,
and launched the most difficult task
of his relief.