The smart bomb talks to itself: Which Baghdad?
It has the cheerfulness, the modesty of a dancing dog,
drawn into the immense ear of the ocean,
homing in on the whispers on the horizon,
following the long swells into shallow water,
coasting on the dry winds rolling in the chaparral,
down the cattle trails and the riverbeds,
over the little towns with Mexican names in Arizona,
over the Continental Wash ’n’ Dry,
over a dog sleeping in a hammock
and a vegetable garden where the tomato plants
are growing in a wire funnel,
through a kitchen window as the breeze is parting the yellow curtains,
and someone is boiling an egg,
and the radio is playing the song about the lonesome prairie.