That I may reduce the monster to

Myself, and then may be myself

In face of the monster, be more than part

Of it, more than the monstrous player of

One of its monstrous lutes, not be

Alone, but reduce the monster and be,

Two things, the two together as one,

And play of the monster and of myself,

Or better not of myself at all,

But of that as its intelligence,

Being the lion in the lute

Before the lion locked in stone.

                                — Wallace Stevens; The Man with the Blue Guitar.

Back in the Box

Back in the box, the panther starts; counting the bars.

They are the same. And now she knows—unbearably—there

is a world beyond that she can get her teeth into and walk

around. There is a way out of the circumference of her

centered self. There is a way of being other than oneself.

There is a way out. She remembers and starts to pace.

There is a way out. She sees it briefly as her eyelids

fall. The day’s remains slip in before the day is done.

They are a distant dream. There is such comfort in captivity.

She hears horns honking in the distance: the Ding an Sich.

But will not, cannot, does not heed their call.