There is silence in the white space where there are no words to read,
unsure where is here or there, the near or far, the up or down.
Only stillness where time appears congealed, undefined. Am I
floating? The pavement, unseen, sticks to my feet.
What is the sound of black smoke when a poem burns like Twin Towers,
its lines give up, collapse into a heap of bodies of pages, dumped
from the sky, into that open space, with unfinished thoughts?
On the ground, the words had split apart, paper from meaning.
Is there art in twisted metal, shooting from piles of concrete and shards
of glass? Or in the new daylight against pale walls and broken windows,
piercing the left-over mist among the quiet dead? Here, the brave
races to a black door, to enter into white, undefined spaces
where no sound escapes, no colors are seen, no memories
of black smoke and the weight of onrushing ground.
