That morning, the sun
displaced the darkling
hours, lit sharp cruel
ice jags on the overhang.
Glad of descent,
we were all
sick of altitude
no less than him
huddled in his catacomb
a part of me knew already
like the drag of time
before inevitable impact
my own cheek
began the journey beyond
the pale and into plum mauve
his fine network of capillaries
had long passed into
tar baby black.
A slurred parting speech
desperate hushed wail
bottled breath wasted
on a death already foregone
I had to turn back
weeping in the shadow
of summit-lust.
