In the sandstorm our metal tempers,
while the flesh decides and steels
itself for rage:
Come, precision-guided sunsets,
majesty of clouds,
red underneath.
Come, collateral angels,
patriots sheathed in sulphur,
loading their dice.
All our training rears us
to tear cell from cell
in this age-old game: perfected.
Our metal is alive, almost,
a grinding machine —
charged with a purpose
but beyond our control.