Words, toiling, make no sense of
Cloudy saline drizzle, irrigating
Ragged hang-nail, irritating
Puckered valleys of flesh and
Age-sagged meatus, from memory
No longer engaging Soldat Emeritus
Yet pumping to the dregs, crying "Victory!"
Smooth my hair
With spit-on-finger line
Tempt my brow to squeeze
My orbits to catch a roll
My arms might spread divine
And joints never, never seize
But ever disjoint Self
And Control.
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Sang froid is in the literal grave installed
The dust you attempt to shake off is never there
Unless the spittle dried on hated-face on hated-wall
Can freshly mount the deceptive air
Will you remember, my all-too-unbrief friend?...
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