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