I’ve been high
When a Chamois broke from mist
thick as choked bonfire smoke, one hoof
loosening a river of stone. And again, near
Llanberris, spradeled like Spiderman
on the angled slab, twisting a chock
from the crack. A flight above the Kent
as an air-cadet, a green blear under the wing.
Terrestrial dabbling with blow
and other stuff, but nothing to compare
with level six of this inhospitable monolith,
where, at 4am, there are no furnishings
to soften or mute sounds of life
or death, the sense of altitude enhanced
by jammed on air-con. The twenty-something doctor
pushes her hair behind her ear as she reviews
a dug chart, while I marinade my teeth
in vending machine coke
and the monitors bleep and gong,
the rows of wired hearts
flighty as budgies in a primary school aviary,
alarms alerting us to a change of pace, a stutter
or overlong pause, the unsteady pulse a backdrop
to our jokes, our intermittent chat.