Just yards away from my rental car, sitting not far below my feet, there was a thermonuclear warhead about twenty times more powerful than the bomb that destroyed Hiroshima, all set and ready to go. The only sound was the sound of the wind.
– Eric Schlosser, Gods of Metal, August 6, 2015
The only sound is the sound of the wind.
The only sight is the sight of the fence
circling with taut wire and warning signs
this undefended line of defence; the sight
of concrete and metal in quantities
sufficient for homeland security; the sight
of the Midwest spreading itself towards
interstate or strip mall or nowhere at all.
The only sound is the sound of the wind
and there can be no other sound
for the fence has no song, only blind spots
where the cameras fall short of each other.
The concrete has no song, for no song
can be grey. The metal has no song
that is not already the abrasive song of rust.
The interstate has no song but the thrum
of wheels and the insipid music
filling the ears of those shuttled to and from
and within yards of this place, those
who are deaf to the sound of the wind
and the half-life of the promise it carries.