From the mountain, the city thins to a point,
a flicker beneath the eye, a distributed joint.
We look, then look through each other’s face,
two bodies exceeding the limits of place.
We descend. The city takes what we wear,
swallows the body, leaving the gaze there.
Still from that altitude, still through the noise,
we read its structures; we receive its message.
Silence clings to us, membrane, skin,
while the city turns and lets us in.
They look at us, but cannot see
the height from which we still perceive.
We never left the mountain’s air.
We only moved the bodies there.
Below, the city multiplies in light.
No ant can climb this far tonight.
― Atrona Grizel