#28:

Nanga Parbat

Sleet cuts patterns into our deadened faces.
These are the hours.
An abrupt torrent of frozen cloudbursts
has rendered us speckled white.

I hold your hand as wind
gusts peripheral invisibility.
My ears are purple and chipped.
Your terminal "I love you so much" will be, lip-read
instead of heard: as a hushed symphony.

So, dear. Let's plummet
to the top of this mountain.
Headfirst, in a dream. ||

~-~