No place is, only experiences echo. Las Vegas
Of these phrases could never be Las Vegas
Of your memories. After the magic show,
After the stroll through the Hadean campfires
Of stale smoke, chilled air, and chattering lights,
After the the great wheel so slow it felt like fate
Or justice, grinding fine—at least until it paused
A moment just for the sake of one body on
Crutches—after the glowing inchworm exit
Through the long chains of head and taillights,
There was the almost empty desert air once
More, birthday daughter rattling like a Gatling
Gun and then suddenly sound asleep in her seat.
Dead ahead, the greatest of the constellations,
Hunter, spider, hourglass with its waist cinched
Cockeyed as a pirate’s sash, reclined on the horizon,
Time spinning sideways, always, jaunty as you please.
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