[Mister Saint]: 79.Poetry.Tank
It splits the sky above the dunes where sand is all that is;
the pulverized remains of soil carved
where a river used to bubble--
until the water boiled--
and the sun slashed bloody chasms
in an Earth that bleeds sand.
The golden grains
pour in spurts from tread to tread
and spill into the yellow sea,
yellow sea, bloody sea.
It swings its turret, twisting, a hawk's head
scouring for a kill--
scouring for you-- at the bottom of the hill.
The barrel belches smoke and flames
that lick the murdered earth
right along the chasm wound,
scatters sand just like the shell
has slit a vein
and grains spew up and out and out
and you go with.
You'll soon be sand yourself.