and scattered around the world, lie all the unfound black boxes.
The blood has washed away. The sounds have washed away. No more
readings of altitude, airspeed or pitch trim position.
Some have sat in place for decades. Each left to sink beneath the mud, to
wear away with the tides.
One says We never really know how much time we have.
Another says When she smiled, she just twinkled like a jack-o-lantern.
The third asks Will they never read my poems? I could have been an absinthe- sipping Rimbaud, or one of Duchamp's found objects.
The fourth I didn't think it would be Malcolm.
The fifth I'm lonely.
The sixth If they had come to rescue me, I would have told them what I know.
Only one says nothing. Instead, in ninety-minute intervals, drawing on
some vague source of power, it records the vertical acceleration of the flounder,
the orbital heading of the earth.
