The
dark, thirty-five thousand feet of
air
Two hundred and twenty-eight in
terror
Whether it pitched down like a
bird of prey
Whether any were conscious then to pray
If in the cold of
altitude the
fuselage broke up
If it dove intact for miles till the
sea tore it up –
I know none of this – knew none (I was asleep
Four thousand miles distant in the
double bed I keep):
Not whether or how they anticipated
death
Through the steep dark – but this far I have
faith
That there are
other minds I know
I knew nothing of them in the terror they knew