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
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