November 16, 2008


Since everything I claim might be denied,
when I have the strength to forget, I forget.
And when I don't, what an Elysium
rots in my mind's vegetable compost.
I'd rip this page from the book if I could,
rave through the hills, sickle in hand,
mowing the dead like so many poppies.
But what happened once continues to happen;
in a minute I turn back into myself.
Each sentence, grateful, once pronounced
returns what it filched: one sound,
the pulse of some rankled rhythm
with which I prod this sacrifice along.

—Christopher Bakken
(2001, Truman State University Press)

Posted by dwaber at November 16, 2008 04:20 PM