Mining Memory
Excavation came via blank verse,
took possession and threw you
back into a dream. It was the reverse
of memory, deepening as it grew,
conundrums unresolved by your attempts to write.
Did you wish your words would rouse the dead,
free skeletons closeted in the night,
leave you astonished
at the conjured ghost
who jousted with your intelligence?
Would it be too much to boast
that reliving the past was recompense
for anguish buried in each lode-bearing line,
the perils of excavation in such a treacherous mine?