The Death of the Free-Solo Climber

He was a nice fanatic
a lean Messiah who didn’t love barbers
prophet of no apocalypse no followers
that he would ask to die
the only True Believer in a church of One.
His god the Rockface
his rapture the precarious hold
curled fingers toes the dancing crouch and leap
ecstasy of motion liturgy of Climb and Cling
unwritten unsung
strung on taut chords of sinew and nerve
paean of the Vertical. 

After he fell it took several hours
to find his broken body.
People who knew about it
said that for him it was an easy climb.
There had been rain
the rock was slippery and wet
he had climbed in rain before
no ropes axe pitons
nothing but a bag of chalk.
Thirty-six years old.
They said he was good company
friendly jolly easy-going
called him Dr. Death and Dirty Derek.
He drank beer in The Old Chicago
ate no meat didn’t use tobacco
no wife job kids life insurance.

He had a girlfriend. 
Gravity claimed him.