Occasionally a god speaks to you, 
rutted tollway a flint knife breaching
gutted fields hung on event

horizon, clear cut contradiction 
through soy beans and sheared corn: blue 
pickup an orange blaze, white letters

blistered, boiling down to tarmac,
asphalt, sulfur fume cured by a chemical
plant burn-off pipe, blue flame chipped

with white raising a buttress of weather
-burnt bricks, flaking wind
totem. We stopped to take some cargo

on, weighted October with a freight 
of waiting snow traveling east, panic of 
starlings startled from stubble husks

by harvest moon dangled directly 
ahead: drove into the pitted sphere, bloody 
pearl punched in a sky just out of reach

(vanishing point retreating, peeling), 
one of the yellowed streetlights 
by now, dimming, diminishing. The road

says to perspective, wait.