I went to Vegas
bet twenty, lost twenty
but climbed the Red Rocks
and stood some two thousand feet above the slots.
I felt a gamble with every step higher.
Some people are addicted to the tug of cards
I'm addicted to the tug of my gut
to touch god and sky
flora and fauna and faces that fit forever.
I met tequila and met the mountains
and met the carcass of grief within me.
I spit the latter out.
On three hours of sleep, I know this:
The pain of losing my best friend
(whose hands healed my heartbreak
whose tongue sung my sorry songs)
made me consider the leap.
Dabble and test the eternal rest high.
If the nice nap had a money-back guarantee
I may have bet it all in Vegas,
but I despise the thud of flesh and rock.
I stood still
and heard something like the sound of you.
(what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,
except this and tequila.)
Every breath is a bet.
I inhaled and stared
in the stones and sky and desert horizon.
I miss looking at the lines in the palm of your hand.