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The recent news regarding the tape of the last moments of flight 93 calls to my mind <a href="" target="_blank">this poem</a> from the January 2002 issue of First Things.


A payload of people phoning home:
their ghost voices linger, caught on tapes,
rewound, rewound, as if listening could summon them
back into themselves. The last hopes

supplanted now with clinging to a missed
call, replaying it, imagining words
but what?equal to the worst
dream, which shook itself, woke, cut the cords

binding earth to sky. Now we go
yawing rudderless into our new history.
Were those Gods smouldering hindquarters we saw
between the towers? Or has this mystery,

being human, stunned even God into absence?
Whence cometh my help? The fire engine
pulling from the station winds its sirens
and we fall silent. Psychopaths grin

from their unmarked vans. Around midnight,
a drunk puking at our garden gate sounds
on the verge of detonating. And why not?
Nothing can surprise me. Night drowns

itself in sleeplessness. Then its day.
The veiled rain, dreads dullest minion,
with chilly fingers drums its lullaby
not real, not realon the windowpane.

Whats real? Outside, in thin light,
wet lavender relinquishes its scent,
a bruised sweetness rising through the rain.

Passing the open window, caught a moment
by the cool, still smell, I forget
and almost breathe again.

Sally Thomas

[ 04-19-2002: Message edited by: roger_ramjet ]</p>
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