I don’t know that anyone shouted, “Corpsman up!” Like in the movies; I was already up There, where smoking metal scraps stopped in some kid’s flesh Red fragments of flesh screaming in the sun
Later:
Carrying bodies of literature was impossible But I tried; Wordsworth and Keats during the day Holes in the patients and in sterile drapes Red fragments of flesh in the E. R. at night
Now:
In the evenings I carry Wordsworth outside And my older self, to a chair at dusk