Here we are, somewhere, flung out to a
Kuiper Belt of sodium lamps and toll plazas.
We are past the billboardβs zombie tug,
self-storage’s colic, its chambered bellies.
And we are far past the big-box parking lots,
cul-de-sacs, empty playing fields, the un-built,
when our bus drops an octave, goes somnambulant.
The interstate is missing mile markers, rest stops.
No weigh stations. The sleepers reach deep space
cocooned in white noise, and those of us left
awake are left adrift, faces to the following eye β
a pool of security light over the passing lane.
Anywhere might be good enough to anchor a name:
house, warehouse. The sky purples over an alien plain.