More from Rosie

Rosie, Rosie, you’re running so fast

past me to the sheep, like a kangaroo.

I found a dead squirrel on one of the last

days. I don’t think the killer was you.


But then, when you sat on the window sill,

a bird flew against its pane and landed

in front of you, who were sitting just still.

You mouthed it and that’s, I’m afraid, how it ended.

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