Reading out loud.
The grand canyon...would be the perfect place to write this, no, the perfect place to read this, aloud to myself, because poets really do love the sound of their own voices.
The house of mirrors, giant distortions of yourself staring mystified back at you, This as well is an ideal place to write. In my head I am reading this, in a recreation of that giant chasm, made from nothing but glass. Me sitting in the middle, at the very depth of the crystal crater, speaking softly, watching the echoes bouncing off of the many versions of me, capturing every feeling, every possible meaning, ever repeating, ever repeating, repeating...and always, even in my most daring daydreams, glass shatters into multitudes of my persona's, as I watch, almost amused.