The paper tore like skin from the flesh on the bone
And when I realised myself it was the done
Ease of the act appalled me most. Here at home
On a Friday-off from work it seemed that doom –
That should be blocked by a silent, novelist's time –
Could still sound its mark when I made mine
With a journalist’s signalling, blackened opening line.
Was my morning really the same as those who, in lines,
Waited, scanning the lists of names to mine
From the gaps some dizzying connection across time?
In a tarantella of hope and fear the mobiles' bleep
And in the echoes off the microphones' sweep
Someone else's silence is broken, someone must weep
Reading the meaning of no-signal signs (too deep?).
By our two shaking hands, I find something apparent
Which I might not infer when I re-find the page in ten
Beats' time. How easily my mind with its unmarking trend
Can sound out the human of TERROR IN M...
Written on March 12th, 2004.