Wednesday, November 21, 2007

from Electra, by Marilyn Hacker

by Marilyn Hacker

Someone I used to be friends with walked off with a copy of Babel-17. The fact that this poem was in it was one of my greatest regrets, that, and it was a pretty good book too.

Growing older I descend November.
The asymptotic cycle of the year
plummets to now. In crystal reveries
I pass beneath a fixed line of white trees
where dry leaves lie for footsteps to dismember.
They crackle with a muted sound like fear.
that and the wind are all that I can hear.
I ask cold air, "What is the word that frees?"
The wind says, "Change," and the white sun, "Remember."

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