Rough but Something Close

This was written at 2 am on a sleepless night in Minneapolis after a flashback-laden panic attack on the flight from SFO to Minnesota.  It's rough and not finished, but the beginning of something I've been trying to get down for a year now...

Moving steady down the highway,
into the wind, feeling the force,
the pressure.

Sudden shift and broadside push -
hands tight clasp the wheel, connected
through the spine and belly,
knees and ankles to the floor.

Fight the split second carry back
to the impact and the sound,
the chaos tipping, broken senses
snap and fizzle.

There like two giant, iron dumpsters
sent rolling down two opposite facing hills
to meet, and me inside - no absorbing
the sensation, no controlling -

the sound, cavernous and immediate,
enveloping and instantly and echo
as the sparking, caving hulk tumbles violent
speeding terrible -

the flint of steel and pavement trailing
orange and burning traces through
the instant shift to blackness - lost
and only now approaching

what it might have been between
the horror dropping silent - crazed
and twisting fire grinding roll and fever
chill and hush,

stranded tremor on the shoulder,
shredded strands of corduroy peeled wet
from flesh and gravel, blind and powerless,
alone.


And back, four wheels coasting solid
in the rightmost lane, easing patient
behind U-haul trucks and those who know
the limit is 65 and do not care -


arms stiff against the wind,
breathing in and breathing out,
aware that home and work are miles apart
and will be.