To Military Progress

You use your mind
Like a millstone to grind
You polish it
And with your warped wit

At your torso,
Prostrate where the crow
On such faint hearts
As its god imparts,

And claps its wings
Till the tumult brings
Black minute-men
To revive again,

At little cost.
They cry for the lost
And seek their prize
Till the evening sky’s

From Observations (The Dial Press, 1924) by Marianne Moore. This poem is in the public domain.