Comment on this
by Kate Magill
After dark, when the sun at last relents,
we walk up to the top of the mesa,
watch the endless airplanes cruise overhead
and the Strip blink in the not-distant west.
Up here we're almost free‐no keyed-up crush
of drunken bodies, no staggering reek
just us, the inevitable neon,
and the sirens screaming bloody murder
as they careen through the turgid traffic.
All those bodies.
If we climb
high enough, it's almost like we're angels.
Keep following that hot black road, winding
through death, out the other side, past salt flats,
past the serrated peaks and dust-sown fields:
you know, we're practically in paradise.