No confirmation bias in Francis Bacon

I was walking around the death of a Greyhound,
when it came out of nowhere.
No gun, or rape, or tales of abuse, but an arrow pointed
straight between my breasts.
I could see her eyes pulling back like a bow.

Grief is a vanity. No, a conceit.

I stood naked in the escape room,
the arrow dangling from the middle of my breast,
just missing the heart.

Wallow. What a pretty word.
Kind of sounds like willow, speaks of water.
Pussy willows in ponds.

The arrow popped out with a sucking sound,
but there was no blood.
Rubbing the spot, I said to Eunice, my drunk inner child,
It’s ok, sweetheart.

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