Drifting Souls detail
This narrow leaf one hand-span
Wide contains a landscape
Pock-marked, cracked, stained tan
Like smoke. Within it figures wrapped
In dust stand fixed in sight
As if inside a rifle’s scope.
But for now they will not die
And are not killing, only shuffling
Through grasses, as light as ghosts — mild,
Becalmed. Forty years is as nothing
Here, where they linger, fastened,
Their legs disappearing
In uncut grass, their torsos thickened
By packs, canteens, by radios, guns
Pursuing their endless errand.
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