Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jul 2017
a flock of them we call a ******,
though not what I did to ****** men
I shot on the Mekong, who did nothing
but startle me a muggy mornΒ Β 

I watched them float,
face down in primordial mire,
not far from the wire, which
split their world from mineΒ Β 

birds came by noon
greedy passerines perching, pecking
on black clad backs; they sang not a word
of thanks to me

though I had made a meal of men,
for those who drop from blue skies--not even
when the flesh pulled swiftly from bone, and
blood flowed silent over their talons

July 4, 1970, Mekong Delta, Vietnam
Written by
Please log in to view and add comments on poems