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 morn
I watched them float,
face down in primordial mire,
not far from the wire, which
split their world from mine
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
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 5:51 PM UTC
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 morn
I watched them float,
face down in primordial mire,
not far from the wire, which
split their world from mine
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
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