poetry is a destructive force

 

That’s what misery is,
Nothing to have at heart.
It is to have or nothing.

It is a thing to have,
A lion, an ox in his breast,
To feel it breathing there.

Corazon, stout dog,
Young ox, bow-legged bear,
He tastes its blood, not spit.

He is like a man
In the body of a violent beast.
Its muscles are his own…

The lion sleeps in the sun.
Its nose is on its paws.
It can kill a man.

 

( Wallace Stevens )

 

 

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