Something off center, some thing where
you are not in the mood for words
a thing out there, coming toward your blind spot
because all day heavy trucks make the dust
before the battle, no one said battle but
there in the grey dust is the smell of it
the HETs slung low with carriage weight
one and another and one and one in a line
and another line of low gears gathering
like bees confessing to their hive
headlamps sweeping dust
because someone will see, someone will pay
And the moon is not rising in time, the clouds
gone to April, operatic but offstage,
succulent as the fist.
You know these moods.
In the meantime, with a rhythm like syncope,
something … what?
In Najaf, you’ve heard, there will be real trouble.
And that’s not all.