The rear view mirror showed the car on fire.

Metal no protection for burning flesh—

burning down to the color of the night—

a bright reversal reflected in white.

Maybe charred bone? Not hell. Neither heaven.

Police, EMTs too late to save the

tissues smelling like pan steak, fatty pork—

blood emitting its metallic compounds—

the burnt liver of organs— spinal gel

a musky, sweet perfume less offensive

than wires, plastic, alloys, the circuitry

melting down every(all)things to its base.

He (it) never saw, tasted, felt the crash

coming from the back/front/side. But I did.