We crashed through crazed glass in the white-hot burst of the fiery blast. We flared through choked air, in the deafening blare, in the scattering ash.
Through the wall in a soft spring rustle. Street-side selling some summer hustle. Across the Maple Street in a bristling fall. Just whistling all's a balled-up riddle.
Throttling, hurtling, just going, going. And hurting, going. But it's gone, it's going. And not knowing where, in the ground or in the air. A golden stare, whatever.