"I will go wash; and drown these desert honors that stick in my throat. Three weeks before the grand defeat of our enemies, I dreamt my tent squalerous, ruined lieutenants killed by infiltrating mustard gas 5 that couldn't sniff out the winning colors of our almighty flag. My aide snored on under his moony brow, refusing to wake for anything less than the Judgement Day; I'll pass. In the wheezing trenches we squeezed off rounds like mad 10 in an unending philippic against the damned. Dust-erased faces blink skyward from their rust lakes of blood, off, on, off, on. Now downed in a North Carolina airplane hanger and tired of the itching laurels that itch my scalp 15 I stare bemused at what our wanting has brought us here: Disinterred love scrambles up my lap."
From the collection "Contemporaries"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.