at the core of me
burns a small flame of anger, gnawing
from trespassed contacts, from hot, digging-in fingers of love.
in the eyes of those who loved me well
I have seen at last the image of whom they loved
and took for me,
mistook for me.
it was a pretty monkey that resembled me
and was a gibe at me.
So now I want above all things
to preserve my nakedness
from the gibe and finger-clutch of image-making love.
D. H. Lawrence in Imagist Poetry, Penguin Books, 1972