Smarter pow what I’m after. Must be for you
just standing up each time like swing onto a horse
bolts you flat. And your whale ideas? Of a shrimp.
Not the ideology behind my missile controllers
in their offices appear to rotate the world,
jut starbursts on command in urban
or rural landscapes. Impact craters
mess up farming? Really? Grains,
vegetables, or fruit transported
on the globe always somewhere.
But you still weeping? I’ll not fracture
my breath—my concern is speedier,
exacter rockets streak night or day sky
to destroy each enemy, maybe a few
bystanders whose relatives some turn
into puny-armed bomb throwers.
But I’ll not twist in sleep, for if
bitter me sometimes, howl you.