Ruined Morning

On ruined morning:
apocalypse kitchen.
Open the window—let the sounds of disaster in.
Telephone ringing: little alarm bells
Flaking the paint off.
Colours slow down the spin.
And the jackhammer raindrops,
The crushing of clanging,
The shouting, it stills your tongue.
And then you remember
The point. It has left you—
You cannot feel where it stung.

On ruined morning:
pretentious collisions.
Cast iron railing measures angle grinder time. Rude hesitations, arguing hard hats—
Convention of rubble:
punishment defines the crime.
Careening concrete,
And clamorous boltings,
The sun-launched asphalt steam—
A cyclic upheaval,
A bulldozer nightmare,
But this is not a dream.

On ruined morning:
the vertical highway
Terrifies no one, for the sky is far from here.
The satellite photo, the thing you don't mention, Peculiar direction—it is not to do with fear.
I wish you good luck—
See the quiver of arrows,
One of the points has your name.
A feedback collection,
A speaker excursion,
A cruel and deadly game.

On ruined morning:
you recognise someone.
(All the faces look the same.)