Gorge after gorge, turning, turning. Caverns of sunset, falling, falling away-just a single vast gold air breathed out by beings-they must have been marvelous beings, those gold-breathers. Down. Purple-and-green islands. Cleft and groined and gigantically pocked like something left behind after all the oceans vanished one huge night: the mountains. Their hills fold and fold again, fold away, down. Folded into the dens and rocks of the hills are ghost towns. Broken streets end in them, like a sound, nowhere. Shadow is inside. We walk {oh quietly} even so-breaking lines of force, someone's. Houses stand in their stones. Each house an empty socket. Some streaked with red inside. Words once went on in there-no. I don't believe that. Words never went on in there.
( Anne Carson )
[ Plainwater: Essays and Poetry ]
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