There we were,
at the tongue of the glacier
hanging out on the rocks,
a mile above the cloud deck.
We lay around
in various stages
of ams,
making small talk,
heads pounding
like a million
voodoo drums,
the smell of tuna
glued to our teeth
& wondering about the future.
It's what alpinists do
to pass the time
before the ascent,
when the rest of the world
doesn't exist.