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.

Stolen Moments

Stolen moments
You failed to control.
Torn back by partisans of time
I want this situation
To sponge up all the droplets of scattered intensity.
So I put the squeeze on time
Getting my money’s worth
And then some.