I lie atop Sagarmāthā,
Reaching to the stars with a bare black hand,
And bare lungs.
Never will I be closer,
Never will my chances be greater,
But he stakes claims into my body.
I recall beach nights similar,
And the flickering failure of my head lamp,
A beacon for the Universe,
A beckon. I accept.
Chilled beyond feeling,
And more tired than anything alive,
What a dream.
The muscles in my arm freeze contract,
As Sagarmāthā and I vie for mastership.
I close my eyes in defiance of perception and slip.
I open my eyes to plum dawn,
And a yak nuzzling my hand, an extension of the Earth.
To bid farewell to frozen flesh is
Always
More painful than to greet.
He picks me up and lays me across his back,
And I course my fingers through his hot, superzero
Hair,
And watch the Sun rise,
As he carries me down,
Back to the hot sea level,
And the hot tempers,
And the hot greed,
And the hot progress,
Movement, kinetic,
Hot, hot, hot,
Fire and carbon and electricity and blood,
Hot, hot, hot,
Boats and cars and morticians and leaders of First World Countries,
And leaders of third world countries and even plants,
Hot, hot, hot,
Energy and the Sun and moonlight and algae and volcanoes and
Gunpowder and bullets and bombs and bunkers and Eternal Presidents'
Sons and HOT, HOT, HOT.