Is poetry dangerous?

The self botanizes.
He dreams of breeding, one day,
an odorless narcissus.
The otters are gone from the bay
and I have seen five horses
easy in the grassy marsh
beside three snowy egrets.

Bird cries and the unembittered sun,
wings and the white bodies of the birds,
it is morning. Citizens are rising
to murder in their moral dreams.

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