They call me the Adam bomb ,
like I’m to be dropped over Eden ,
make flames of the birds in the sky
and name all of the wild beasts ash .
I am built of war and steel ,
still , stoic power ,
tucked up under this giant winged-thing ,
an egg ready to burst uranium yolk .
Hear the mechanic buzz of annihilation
as I’m carried to my glorified purpose .
From heaven , earth is gone ;
there’s only the dark and the loud machines ,
then the click ,
and then the floor opens .
I hover above white cloud-smears ,
feeling like Icarus : the power of the sun .
My cold creators with flat eyes and gloved hands
exchange a look
then I’m falling —
Sky screams , going down ,
I am neither Judgement nor Redemption .
I am not Grace; I am not the Fall ;
I am both the End and the Means ,
the “what Men stood for” , plummeting ,
wailing , ******—
the sound of the end .
