A broken
crane hanging down amongst skyscrapers,
threatening
to fall apart,
a very
physical Damocles’ sword
beyond
metaphor.
I imagine
the persisting shrieking of the weather,
a wrathful
unframed mouth
disgorging
shrapnel after shrapnel of the world,
the gutters
exploding in the dark,
the living
daylights wiped out in volleys of angry stars,
rubble
blazing into sight, roof-beams dangling
juxtaposed
like asterisks, shattered flasks
engorging,
later, the silence.
A staircase
left where a house was,
towering alone,
you could walk up on it
climbing
into a nowhere.
Questioning
the wind
like a dishevelled
druid
or a poet
stung by
the
incomprehensible shards of his lines.