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NOT ME

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Soldier, Renaissance paintings, Renaissance art

Love is pleasure. But hate

becomes love’s fate—

since paradox is everywhere.

You know it’s true.

Even now paradox is destroying you.

But not me! Can that be?

Have I reasoned paradox away

in my poetry?

By the slightest measurement

I know what paradox has meant.

They agonize: what is poetry for?

It seems beauty is made to be

destroyed and wasted. I adore

what dies—this paradox has more

of paradox than even paradox

can describe: the love and hate

which breaks out in every tribe

almost ruined me:

I hated you in my poetry.

I betrayed myself with cleverness

which made me ignorant. Nonetheless,

as you can, at this moment, see

I am fighting back, if not in that,

then in this, poetry

which says I still love you;

pleasure still moves

me in you by the smallest possible degree.


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