I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

In Viet Nam
(if you lived)
it meant
365 days.

So wrong.

Coming home
began the real tour.

Each day an unseen mine,
a ****** sighting you in,
punji sticks along the trail,
choppers falling and burning.

All have their
civilian counterparts.

The worries of
the day to day
far exceed the
perils of war.

What they have
in common is
the ever present
possibility of
unseen death.

365 days was nothing.

Man, woman or child:
living your life is
the real Tour of Duty.

   ~mce