To the guns of the firebase, a Psalm of deliverance.
Though we are not holy men, we hope for Earthly salvation found by your power.
Though we are not covenanted, we pray for your wrath against our enemies.
The maps of this place are the maps of our souls and mortal coils, lo:
We search them under red light for the answers we seek, wondering where we are.
And so we will search ourselves in the red of the morning in ten years, wondering where we go.
With a prayer whispered skywards in our time of need, forgetting the lessons of Israel,
We turn in our impatience to another:
Pilot, if you can hear me, I need your parabolic blessing.
I need the strength of your metal wings, and the grace of your kneeboard hymns.
I give you my offering, my infrared sacrifice on this altar of aluminum and steel.
But there is no answer, and in our shame and loathing we return…