He steps out of a cab
as a jet
surrealistically
glides
slow motion-like
into the world trade center

he doesn't see it happen
he hears it happen:
          the explosive sound reverberating
          through the silvery upward space

          and then the awful silence descending
          hanging over the street
          an ominous existential moment
          in which time and memory are stilled

he begins to run...

later he hears
a second plane slam into the tower

he's surrounded by people running, shrieking,
a galloping mass of figures racing
against a strange backdrop, a tsunami of
rolling undulating smoke
pouring from the towers

there were those who knew
he had an appointment
this very morning in the towers
a morning that is now an apocalypse
a time when a massive number of people
would be confronted with a fiery demise
annihilated
dna destroyed
identity obliterated
flesh reduced to ash

this was his moment of transformation...
money could fix his destiny
a perfect time when identity could be
so easily purchased, reinvented, altered...

he would start over:
a new name, a new face, a new life -
he would run, flee, escape without regret,
without a trace,
racing ruthlessly, breathlessly
on a path
to his own resurrection...