—Darwin

He meant, of course, origin. What
                        strains from what framework
                                        of bones. The form


                        the giraffe bends
                down to the dirt same as the elephant,
                        binding our foreign, numbered


weight. And from the war
        of nature comes the production
                of a higher animal. Say


                                from the war of nature comes
                        what we need—
        a machine more than man. What mind wouldn’t


want this? Clean tactic, poor boys
                of America safe before the screen.
My friend–caught, in Jalula


                by an IED—not quite right
        still. Who am I, then, to demand
                        a higher order.


There is grandeur,
        Darwin says, in this view of life.
                        The new technology
                
                that keeps our Global Hawk air-strong
                                thirty-four long hours. Improving the real
                        bird’s endurance by the day. So art


plays nature’s second part.
                Coiled, darker
        than black, the engine resembles


                        sci-fi’s most gleaming
                machinations. Death-helmet, snake
                                pit, asteroid-flung. Endless forms


most beautiful. It looks ready
                for space, 
                        some thicker atmosphere
                
                                Over Gaza
                                        men call drones zanana—nagging
                        wife. Slang imitating sound. How hungry


language becomes. Thy soul was like
        a star—They are as gentle as zephyrs,
                        blowing below the violet—


                                        Her beauty hangs
                                                upon the cheek of night—Always
                                we want more. Catch up, fiction. We are


already our most gruesome 
                design. Operators, in their padded
        chairs, in low, tan Midwestern
        
                        buildings, cannot hear
                                the buzzing—these new birds


make. Bangana—Patshtu for wasp—        
        sing us a song we can fall down
                        into. Sing something decent, something


        
                far off and sweet. We are, we now know,
                        made from star stuff. Who wouldn’t feel 
                                god-like, so hovering, so composed.