The mordants in their noise, the night transports. A means of coming to the switchyard of the tongue. To have once set such store by forced creatures. Not changed toward something of my own. The towns raised chaffed seas to ground them. In that frieze before storm you went on. Effigy loomed out of cornfield. Future inside its trussed forms.
From The Keep. Copyright © 2001 by Emily Wilson. Reprinted with permission of University of Iowa Press.