This time the hold-up man didn't know a video-sound camera hidden up in a corner
was recording what was before it or more likely he didn't care, opening up with his pistol,
not saying a word, on the clerk you see blurredly falling and you hear--I keep hearing--
crying, "God, God," in that voice I was always afraid existed within us, the voice that knows
beyond illusion the irrevocability of death, beyond any dream of being not mortally injured--
"You're just falling asleep, someone will save you, you'll wake again, loved ones beside you. ..."
Nothing of that: even torn by the flaws in the tape it was a voice that knew it was dying,
knew it was being--horrible--slaughtered, all that it knew and aspired to instantly voided;
such hopeless, astonished pleading, such overwhelmed, untempered pity for the self dying;
no indignation, no passion for justice, only woe, woe, woe, as he felt himself falling,
even falling knowing already he was dead, and how much I pray to myself I want not, ever,
to know this, how much I want to ask again why I must, with such perfect, detailed precision,
know this, this anguish, this agony for a departing self wishing only to stay, to endure,
knowing all the while that, having known, I always will know this torn, singular voice
of a soul calling "God!" as it sinks back through the darkness it came from, cancelled, annulled.