Kirk Nesset's "Saint X" chronicles the muted joy and despair of a
millennial age, charting love's ills and the grind of mortality.
His figures are bizarre but familiar: people born under punches,
shaken awake by rattles and flares, latter-day pilgrims who stare
at the statue that stares at America; people for whom disobedience
is still a first duty, and death but a question of style. Wearing
bandages rather than smiles, they're misshapen champions downed by
self-bludgeons, perversely on foot while the saddled horse
follows--and yet in each case, in each poem, they are honored if
not saved by nuanced reflection, measured perception, and the
pleasures of song.
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