We sat stoically together
connected by thin rope
on the tongue of the glacier.
Wrapped in warm feathers
like Michelin-men,
we deciphered
the operation of crampons
& giggled maniacally
about doing it with
stone-blue fingertips.

Headlamps glowed
as starlight glittered
off the ice wall facing us,
leaving traces of a million suns
burned into my retinas.

Frozen snot clung
to my moustache
like hungry ticks
and all I could think of
was sticking to the plan.

A short jaunt
across sixty-degree slick-glass,
then over the moraine
for eight hours straight up,
zigzagging to Heaven.

And standing ten minutes
in that sacred place,
we'd kiss cloud zephyrs,
dole out high fives
with splitting headaches,
crack huge smiles
with ****** noses
taking Kodak moments
before the six-hour descent
to hot chicken soup.