Sun in the valley lounged on our faces.

A steep but short up to climb,
light boots, light gloves.

No bouillon packed for delirium.

The trail oozes with mud
merged with a trickle like spittle
from some mountain’s ice chin.

Plop of the drip as we climb.

How far? Snow and wind gouge
our features. Straight up like dall
sheep with no hooves and no horns.

Mountains careen upwards.

No beacon for trails to the valley.

Around us white cadavers of rocks.

A scent of sour in my mouth.

We trek horizontal, a narrow iced ledge.

Looking down surrenders to vertigo,
hastens our end. I a beast on all fours
that can’t feel its haunches. Will you leave
the black and blue shins of our marriage behind?

My world is the back of your legs shuffling,

Your turnings towards me, your mutterings
lost in the din.