Drone

The veiled shape is a grandmother To the young boys working beside Her—packing stones from the field On the journey toward subsistence. Above them the Hindu Kush Disappears behind storm clouds the color of Milk in a metal pail. The grandfather is grinding Blades the way time sharpens Distrust—the stones fall From the mountains all winter— Almost always at night— The sound of them ganging up On starlight leaves a musical note Like jostled skewers. There’s nothing militant Here unless the noise of a shovel Is the voice of heresy— The missile enters the poem The way a horse defecates on an ant colony Simply because everything is Where it is when shit happens— If I were writing this poem I’d ignore the falcon hunting What small life escapes the heat signature Because it’s pushed by million-year- Old imperatives and unlike Us it has no off switch. This is where the poem Fails—where all literature fails— To thirst sufficiently to drink the last drip From the cold faucet attached To the executioner’s heart.