after the ethanol stopped burning

our pupils blended with the smell of burning ethanol
through an orgy of wind turbines
that turned without much thought
and provided no discernible power
to the rash of houses
quietly suffocating in their wake

but they did propel the aluminum womb we rode in
which was absent of fuel
or destination
or driver
who had succumbed to alcholism
at some point during the trip
and passed quietly behind the indifferent wheel
leaving the pedals which never required his weight anyway

though he’d told us he never meant to be a driver
or an alcoholic
no one means to anything
it was all just something that happened

and that his death had no bearing on our celebration or mourning
or arrival or departure

it was the thing he was meant for
as dictated by the deviations in the corn stalks

*Owner receives hand-painted 18”x24”x1.5" acrylic extension of this piece