I  vacant center, space-y station master.
                                                                      pass 
over through,
                                                                              
          train of thought.
                 there is blood on my house.
    will language build us backward
                           and our enemies,
                    and preserve,
          and convert us

                                                   which vacuous god does not 
make murder?
                 joining us,
                                         weaving the threadbare

           a child cries.  mother/father ashes.  no sorting them out

               sliding into the pit of language, one w-hole image 

                                        meta for eye and ear

street signs uprooted.
vein in the rock severed.
blood spilled.
thousands buried
under steaming steel 
and the concrete.
who were they?
names swept off
by the smoke. 
the dumb ruins of words.
what, after all, do ancient hieroglyphics mean?
twin tower stumps in the downtown ground,
a city limps now
into nonsense

                                            speechless

I epicenter.  ground zero.   
a weaver?  no, a cutter.
someone hands me a surgical mask 
to avoid breathing
all this death

                                        my horror.  my nature.  
                                        twin towers all one rubbish. 

                                                                  still time 
to rescue and rebuild,
                                                               to structure a 
call-down 
                                                           from the pluming 
sky lab?
                                                       no more broken art
                                                from nameless furniture 
movers.
                                           I noah,
                                  an ark-type,
                           an author-ship
 

                                              ah, fuck it.
                                 the matter of responsibility
                                             gone to hell

I was once 
a plain spoken man.
eye                                               to                                                eye
                                                my word
                                                    was
                                                   good