Memorial Overpass, I-94, ND

Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky

—Philip Larkin

No Services, the emptiness declares,As off the Interstate's destination-Minded miles, this exit to nowhereNo one who's not from here would give a passingThought to grumbles up to a cattle guard.At 6 am clouds thin as tissue paperAbsorb a sunrise of spilled orange juice.The road I've run out of ends in steel barsBefore a wide, highway-divided view.

With time and light to burn, I can affordTo take some measure of the state I'm in:The wealth of space. Green lined fields checkerboardUp to an impossibly faraway horizon.Outside the dialed-in comfort of my carI perch on a guardrail, feel semi-scorchedBack-drafts vibrate the bridge, and study the dustWaked by a grasshopper-sized combine harvesterCrossing the distance at the speed of rust.

The image, in the act of writing, bringsInto focus the blind impulse that broughtMe to this marginal bypass, staringInwardly out at futures already cropped,Consumed, and redeposited. On the postSupporting me, a coiled guitar string(Electric, high E) stapled with plastic flowersBelow a zip-tied plastic envelope,And empty 40s, recalls a crossing-over

Into the unhabituated plainsOf private, personal loss. Standing aboveThe glass and plastic litter of his name, Overlooking the remoteness where he lived,When he lived, a weather-stiffened, fading soldierKeeps his neutral, Midwestern countenance trainedOn the beyond, as is appropriate: thisFlat-lining emptiness the tourists stop forAnd call "larger than life," which nothing is.