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.