We got the fax by yak: Weather turning
worse in three days maybe four—climb fast guys.

Just like last time on that face when my toes

died. They came off, then bigger bits. But climbs
since then have me convinced, and now I love
my calves. A secret edge: steel don’t frostbite.

Last night in tent I dreamt of parachutes
and saws, tea time on the summit singing
Miss Otis regrets she is unable

to belay today. Then, an ice cave dirge.
My daughters threw orchids which broke against
the glass lid of my coffin. My wife wailed

and moved to Kansas, where it’s flat as death
and Jayhawks sing hello. Now Sherpas bring
biscuits for breakfast and we’re back humping

loads. Base camp feels like blackboard fingernails
erasing every angle of ascent.
Humming glaciers plow laggards into chalk.

Mandalas of gravity spin boulders
the size of homes. I wonder if my mail
has found my daughters in their cozy room

with the fuzzed wallpaper clouds. Snow, debates,
plans, routes. We are to wear our sponsor’s heart
on our sleeves at all times. Film’s paramount

for further finance. Wait for the cameras
at the fourth icefall crevasse (our dragon.)
The narrator’s voice will lift die drama

higher tween ads for trucks and insurance.
He’ll cheer on risk and wind, while the ping
ping of metal bones on rock adds texture

to the soundtrack. This cold scrape satisfies
all needs of mind and body viewers will
be wrongly told. Breathless, be told

I’ve forgotten the past, I’m in the moment. Cut.