There was a beautiful poem by Kayo Chingonyi in the New York Magazine this week titled The Nod:
When we’re strangers that pass each other
in the street, it will come down to this tilt
of the head — acknowledging another
version of events set in a new-build
years from now, a mess of a place filled
with books and records, our kids thick as thieves
redefining all notions of mischief.
Perhaps our paths will cross in a city
of seven hills as the light draws your face
out from the bliss of anonymity.
Maybe you’ll be stroking the goose-down nape
of a small child with eyes the exact shade
of those I met across a room at the start
of this pain-in-the-heart, this febrile dance.
When I hear “seven hills” my mind immediately goes to Rome, then San Francisco, but Wikipedia has a helpful list of cities that claim to be built on seven hills.
A friend pointed out The Nod is a fine complement to The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer.