Plowing Water
We return to nightmare
ground, looking over the scene
of the crime, the copper
reflection of little clouds
in the torpid, tainted
canal masking disquiet
and chaos created
in us. Toiling in soft sand
underneath a burden
that would make a mule bleat,
we bitch and moan when told
to drop the rucks. Now we must
dig in, not like blind moles,
but like crippled gravediggers
in broken ground started
by high angle hell. Mangled
sandbags and serrated
pieces of metal pulled from
dirt wounds, also a hand
only missing two fingers.
Using a bayonet,
we bury rancid, fetid
flesh in a hole, puking,
not worried about a name.
