O Wheel turns upon a turn from explication to election. It shouts to freedom. Many of its poems are chronicles, miniatures of the agonized Puritan daybooks. So, as chronicler of his nations and selves, Sacks conducts an errand into the wilderness of proud, perjured words and dangerous texts. O Wheel opens with an echoic text instantly original.
Difference proliferates through originals.
That was rank folly to my head before. Sacks draws singular testimony from a common source, the radical root-work of words accomplishing flesh again. Prophecy is the latest news of a changeless truth. The trick is getting there, and this Sacks does, in the good old-fashioned way. Branch by branch, you climbed to where the voices rained.