the philosophers say we will be terrified, the artists say we will be blind. the mountain holds its tongue, keeps even the pines quiet in the wind, forces us farther into the peak before we can descend: climb, or fall.

lover of my mouth, are you ready for my words? you worship at my thighs, but i think you are not ready for my pace.

stop here, and listen a moment in this place where the water flies off the crest, where the precipice is so neatly defined and then refracted in a thousand shining ways. here the danger peaks, so too the beauty. here my soul threatens to fly, keens in the bright sky to be followed by your eyes.

the crash at the bottom would be inaudible from this height. your atoms and mine were made to be joined.