My Stomping Ox

Barely above a breathe My identity dissolves I am a freakish clown of weak display Remnants of noble motions ripple flatter and wider along the lake I am quieting everything, like tamping countless steam pipes And so if these pipes sang they would sing, what?: …there would be nothing A dark translucent knuckle of vagaries And twisted dreams Dreamed-out and frosty falsehoods I feel less love As this stomping ox Chained by the neck Gazing through a moldy window Shrieking from my patio chair