literally : through my fault
it was –
first degree fuck-up.
Just after dawn
shredded wheat rock and tungsten ice
turned amiable snow
constant fear costume swaps for almost done.
We can take the rope off now
fingers already figuring summit shutter click swindle attention …
the gear rack …
freefalls 400 hard gained metres
a quickstep abseil exit now impossible
or steep ridge descent.
Only one thing for it,
rest of day snow trudge over adjacent peak
and moonlighting glacier plod.
I brace for jet stream abuse.
“I’m not going to say anything,
you know what you’ve done.”
Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand.
Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.
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