I am I because I know my little dog
is twitching under his blanket in a dream
that by our account is probably infantile and
savage, but to him is elegant as a minuet
executed at the apex of the Baroque,
when leaves stirring outside the palazzo
mimic the silks worn by contessas,
and the body politic is doused in claret.
Alabaster footmen let fall the sweetmeats,
and lords and ladies descend,
shrieking in their cat-size wigs!
