Anne Carson
[ID: poem titled "On Rain" which reads,
"It was blacker than olives the night I left. As I ran past palaces, oddly joyful, it began to rain. What a notion is it, after all—these small shapes! I would get lost counting them. Who first thought of it? How did he describe it to the others? Out on the sea it is raining too. It beats on no one."
/end ID.]












