Because it is eternity, it embraces the whole of time, the past as well as the future . . . . In many respects, the drone dreams of achieving through technology a miniature equivalence to that fictional eye of God. —Grégoire Chamayou, A Theory of the Drone Like, I want to say. For nothing’s new—think how the iron balls once soared above Gansu, 1227, bronze muzzle smoking and impassive. Consider the goose feather fletching it replaced, slipping the curved bow, below which history keeps careening. Imagine in tandem the third-string QB’s cannon opening over Ohio as Hannibal wakes on the banks of the Agri. In league, the Pacific Fleet sinking while Gainsborough empties again and again those lonely skies in London. In Latin, “war” can be confused, in some forms, with “beautiful.” Jus in bello. That not beauty must be just but cavalry stampeding a chariot. The general booming Verdi while Atlanta burns. What of alien, infrared goggles peeling back the night? Silent engines that sit atop the clouds, a narrator’s governing ken? We fall so hard for omniscience, allow—in a damp palm, or slid under the teller’s glass, In God We Trust—one prismatic eye to eye us forever from its jade pyramid, to stamp, always, its yes of progress. All at once— finger pressed to the encyclopedia’s tense spine, click after click—figurative, linked up. Aramco burning. The spiking futures. We are eyes on a vehicle flashing lights and it looks like about 7 seven personnel to the east of that vehicle; how copy? We are eyes on Wrigley, overgrown with ivy. On Giotto’s putti swimming alone in the dark. Those great, flightless auks. Assos’ five Doric columns tilting faster toward the Aegean—I, I, I, I, I. Like Was blind, but now I see—