36 bodies,
strung from the
perimeter wire
to the tree line
with one –
all by himself
half in & half out
of the bush – inches
from a clean getaway
the searching
sound of an m-16
on full automatic, going
through clip after clip – cleaning up
whenever a body
is hit, it shudders,
as if offering up a last
pitiful denial of the facts
a few lie so close
together, they seem
to be holding
each other…
i look out into
the mist-torn morning
balanced on a ledge
of indifference,
making a vain
attempt at stamping
some meaning on this
“attrition competition”
the pointless game
of a thousand cuts,
where the only difference
is who gets the grease –
& that’s no difference at all…