I wake up in a mood of low clouds                 
lacking a capacity for the
diaphanous sirens grow louder
but aren't coming for me
on the radio an expert
who couldn't possibly know for sure
insists the passengers didn’t feel
a thing no distress
call came as the plane was pierced
with shrapnel disappeared
from radar broke into three parts
cockpit tail section fuselage
and fell over a thirty-mile radius
onto a region of temperate
grasslands known for
sugar beets and poultry
the town in which I live
carved itself from
metamorphic rock
that descends hundreds of feet
on either side to rivers flowing
north to south centuries
ago invaders carried
weapons while hiking through
thick forests the sky above
in shards inside me
something is coming to
land I must
get up the sirens
have passed by
arriving wherever
they need to arrive in time
or too late

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"All 298 persons on board lost their lives." —MH17 Crash, Dutch Safety Board, pg. 9 [link]