September night on the Great American Desert.

My body lightens on the hilltops and gains pounds

in the draws. On flat stretches, the highway

becomes a tunnel cut by the vehicle’s metal.

As the mile markers sprint past

the FM jazz breaks, fades out, replaced by

a rising hymn sung by thousands of voices.

a flash like near lightning shocks my night vision,

dazed eyes watch black, brown, and white faces

flow across the windshield.

the skyline of New York City swoops closer,

a last pulse of jet engines

flexes the 747’s controls in my hands

plastic paper clay flesh bone . . . burst and burn. . .

a final ash gray vomit of iron glass dust and life.

Angled across the median, engine dead, the car's high-beams

quiver and dim. Still belt-locked, I watch spirit faces

merge back into my vehicle, its metal forged from the puddled

steel scrap of two collapsed towers alloyed with human souls.