For Ronan Lawlor

I slept little, Ronan, thanks to the wind,
and I wondered if you were cold
if you had frozen
solid somewhere, but I hoped the wind
was keeping you awake

We’d seen the signs at the border
post: persona perdida, Irlandes, 28,
ingenero, amable; ojos
azules; someone had heard you’d been
killed in a puma attack, that only
your glasses remained, others heard you
were found alive in El Calafate, in a hostel
drinking beer

My tent walls flapped their way
to an early dawn; the sun hovered
over the Torres del Paine, over the clink
and rattle of campers cooking, striking,
setting out over that same path
that was your last

Up the sandy traverse, up the windblown
narrow trails I walked not knowing
that you’d walked them, that
your shadow almost lingered still
over the same rocks I climbed; I held
the worn trees for support, scurried
over boulders unaware
that you’d slipped into a crevasse
below, blown your last breath
into the mighty wind