The yoke uneasy on the ox doth sit
Till by degrees his stubborn neck does bow.
So Love’s opposers do at last submit
And gladly drudge at the accustom’d plough.
ยท
The yoke uneasy on the ox doth sit
Till by degrees his stubborn neck does bow.
So Love’s opposers do at last submit
And gladly drudge at the accustom’d plough.
“For the poet, the world is word. Words. Not that precisely. Precisely: the world and words fuck each other.”
Kathy Acker