Identity and Subjectivity in Postindustrial Massachusetts

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!