Going (to visit my dying friend, Dave)
Heavy grey granite shoulders heave
Against the sky defining the sharp edge
Between Heaven and Earth
Defying high icy winds
So cold they cry snow
Fingering my prayerbook
I cry out at the line of blood
Weeping from a finger
Tip sliced by a sharp paper edge
So delicately
And in your deathbed you
Finger the delicate edge between
Life and death, fingertips
Numbed with thickening blood
Losing their grip
As you slip
Into the icy air.