Strip to Skyline

I will never
Understand this place,
But rising up above
False fronts,
We watch the
Noise and light
Of the strip
Slip away.

Empty altitudes
Shift to broader
Perspectives
Of a place
That should not be,

And would not be
But for man’s
Fascination
With intervention.
(We won’t call this
Invention.)

Only the selling of it,
And the trickery
That drives
An empty stare
To waste.
Everything imitation.
Everything faux —
Perfectly designed
To tether
And draw them
Beyond their borders.

And dank realities
Always intercede —
Souls selling souls
In bottomless
Loops —
All wrapped in this
Neon-glare pacakge.

But from high
You can see the darkness
That gathers
Round the edges.
Shadows lengthen
Down the mountainside
And a promised
Future reckoning.

And now all the noise
Of waking and disilluion
Fades in the roar of transit,
And we spend three hours
Loving the earth’s shape
Before the city
Slides into view —

And there is no sleight of hand
Here.
Just the battlements
Of daily life,
Lit from within
In lines receding
From lake’s edge.

And this gift
Of homecoming
Is rarely received
With such gratitude.

(flight back from Vegas)

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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