Fighting Words


The words were dying as I said them,
flashes that left the sight eclipsed
and booms that snipped the night
in pieces, misted by the steam of wounds.

The straight line of bullets filled
the air with razor blades, a turret
taken by grenade assaulted them with blood,
gasping in a field like strange bugs.

I assayed the contested sector
with my powerful binoculars, magnified
the final pain of failed units,
even tasted bile on their tongues.

There on the face of you the harrowed
grunts assumed a final pose of reaching.


June 5, 2001