Manila folders fan out on the bed in my office
The long lingering aroma of ammonia creeps out of the bathroom;
Irritating my nasal membranes
That acrid fragrance of jungle latrines.
We were fodder for the soil. Napalmed in Vietnam.
Those clinical insertions of gasoline & flame; In fields of fire
The ethereal spirits at parade rest.
And I, I was retching — regurgitating.
Resurrected, it appeared, for my reunion with Mr. Grave.
nearby a Buddha sits, near rain drenched rows of rice
And I, lying on a pile of stones
The wind caressing my hair; dog tags glinting in the dawn.