Not exactly poetry Friday

What follows is not poetry, but it affected me like a poem does.  It's from the conclusion of Bret Easton Ellis' Lunar Park, a very surreal, semi-autobiographical meets the supernatural novel.  Loved the book and have never been able to shake this section.

...everyone was too young to grasp that our life was folding in on itself -- it was so foolish and touching to think at one point that somehow we would all be spared, but the ashes pushed forward and covered an entire city with a departing cloud that was driven by the wind and kept ascending and the images began getting smaller and I could see the town where he was born as the ashes flew over the Nevada mountains mingling with the snow that fell there and crossed a river, and then I saw my father walking toward me -- he was a child again and smiling and he was offering me an orange he held out with both hands as my grandfather's hunting dogs were chasing the ashes across the train tracks, dousing their coats and the ashes began bleeding into the images and drifted over his mother as she slept and dusted the face of my son who was dreaming about the moon and in his dream they darkened its surface as they flew it but once they passed by the moon was brighter than it has ever been, and the ashes rained down earthward and swirling, glittering now, were soon overtaken by a vision of light in which the images began to crumble.  The ashes were collapsing into everything and following echoes.  They sifted over the graves of his parents and finally entered the cold, lit world of the dead where they wept across the children standing in the cemetery and then somewhere out at the end of the Pacific -- after they rustled across the pages of this book, scattering themselves over words and creating new ones -- they began exiting the text, losing themselves somewhere beyond my reach, and then vanished, and the sun shifted its position and the world swayed and then moved one and though it was all over, something new was conceived.  The sea reached to the land's edge where a family, in silhouette, stood watching us until the fog concealed them.  From those of us who are left behind: you will be remembered, you were the one I needed, I loved you in my dreams. 

pg 306