We sit in varying stages
of anesthesia staring
out the window, at the pictures
hanging on the wall,
anywhere but at the doctor
who pronounces certain doom
we’ve tried forever to avoid.
Tears blur choices other than
a line of mourners
whispering of tourniquets
and mouthing empty lies.
Glory hallelujah, angels
sing above the sadness.
We survey the rim of heaven
with our elastic eyes.
first and last lines from Tim Moder’s poem, “Landscape with Fall of Civilization: Imaginings After Touring Chaco Canyon and Canyon de Chelly”
published in August 2023 Issue 89 Spread, republished on Garden of Neuro
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