My soul cleaves to the dust
My flesh as well
My blood clots it
My bone shapes it

Nowhere and everywhere I am
And I am not alone—
Like motes in a sunbeam
We hang together, strung
Between here and eternity.

The line between life and death
Is so thin, and still so terrible
Like the sharp blue edge of sky;
So begrudge us not this sacred earth
Of which we have become a part.

For all who were never recovered–Manhattan, Arlington, and Shanksville.