THE SNOW LINE

I could smell

the snow line

but I just kept

talking

talking

and climbing

with this

glimmering

young man

who was talking to me

about death

how

a good dose of death

if you truly drink it

is a gift

a gift

a fresh cold

slap

a fresh dark

creek

you’ll never sleep-walk

through your life

again

again

I wonder now

as I wondered then

in the seeping ambrosia

of pine trees

if I was climbing

effortlessly climbing

if I was talking

effortlessly talking

with a god

a god

who never touched me

or told me

his name

a god

of sweet chill

mountain air

sense

a comradely god

of wing-booted

presence.