~

i asked colin if i could post these two old poems of his. he said "no," but i'm pretty sure he meant "yes."

~

Summit

One short, snowy ridge,

Higher than the rest,

Sheltered so carefully

From unconcerned eyes,

So crystal clear and majestic

With its air of foreverness.

Koan

Two hundred meters from the summit,

On a knife-edge ridge,

The wind cuts around an outcropping

Shaking his balance, spinning him

Onto the steep face,

His arms windmilling, a mitt flies into the cold nothingness.

He jams his ice-axe into the crusted snow.

He regroups. 

He is on lead. The summit is two hundred meters, more—

An hour—maybe two, away.

Cutting steps—cut-breathe-breathe-step-cut.

On the summit he takes off his remaining mitten

And smacks his hands together

In hopes of warming his frozen hand before it is too late.

It is too late. His hand shatters—

Pieces of flesh and bone and gristle and tendon

Explode into the void, then fall

And fall and fall—

And he hears the sound of one hand clapping.

~