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Nocturnes: Imagined End
The drones still fly reconnaiscance at night
and weather observations, thrice, by day.
Their leaps into the changeless sky (steel gray)
frightens the random people who still dwell---
in hovels, holes, and cellars---on the ground,
or in it (from which most will never stray).
Their eyes search bleak horizons (but not words).
Their tongues lap brackish water (with no words).
Their ears hear screams of terror (beyond words).
Scent and touch trace death's stern ubiquity.
The drones in flight make minute observations---
condigitions, and terrains, and variations
that do not meet their programs' expectations
coded by men whose dread imaginations
survived their flesh, long dead for generations.
