A few miles past that fucked-up intersection

coming off of the Chicago Skyway –

the toll booth, the gaping hole in the road,

the circle left and then allemand right

demanded by some depraved square dance caller –

I-65 shakes off the big city

and, like any good Midwesterner

makes a good and straight line

through the flat Indiana fields

to civilization.

The sky turns purple

and then black while I drive

through questions without answers

until I am ambushed by

an alien invasion of synchronized red blinking lights,

thousands upon thousands of sentinels in orderly rows,

pinning down the windswept fields,

just waiting for the word.

But there is no call to arms, only

windmills churning wind into watts

in the unending night sky,

a sky that’s

at last

as dark as it’s ever going to be.

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