Of course it’s crazy but I admire it:
the guy hanging from a sheer
rock face so high you don’t see the foot
of the mountain. One hand’s power
saves him from unquestionable death.
He has reached this far unaided and can’t
step away for a breather; every breath
must be centimetres from the mass in front.
The average artisan might push back his cap
and roll a cigarette, pleased with his work.
Lowe is trapped. Only the top
of the ascent will allow muscles to ache
within the comfort of relaxation.
No one has scaled this wall before
since the world began.
This is reality: immediate, raw.
Nothing protects him apart from his own
positive grip. Politics, religion…
everything shrinks in the presence of stone.
A thousand feet below, a pigeon
takes a leisurely noonday flight,
not concerned about trepidation,
how height is life, and life height,
and release annihilation.