They fall like a team of skydivers, each
so amazed by the planet beneath them,
they've forgotten to pull the cord

they fall to their final mortal shape
choreographed by a terror that they
will never be asked to describe

they fall hair streaming, arms outstretched,
newsworthy angels plunging through the
haze of another morning

they fall with faces sandblasted by smoke,
they fall through a fiery cloud on Manhattan,
they fall through a dust storm on Manhattan

they fall after waving from window or ledge
as if there were someone down there in the
world that they had recognised

they fall through their own short tunnel
of darkness, they fall without shame
or glory.

To crash, to burn, or to choke? They follow
the lead of the factory women - New York, 1915-
who jumped because the exits were sealed,

young women who proved that the laws
of profit work just as well as physics.
And were forgotten for their trouble.

But these rag doll people, falling this day,
will keep on falling across the world,
surprised, as if caught undressing,

falling into the arms of the network
with a copyright on death, doomed
to eternal replay.