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the infantryman in newly-bombing khabul carries a squad automatic weapon in each hand
he walks away from the bone and rubber remnants in flames on the verge o tears:

“this, mine, mine is no disgrace”

repeated like a serial number
after de-brief at the S-2 shed

he will:
polish his squad leader off his leather boots

he will:
wash his face in full fever
night will come,
and with it no respite
for water and soap remain
and a certain persistent stain

only when the sun re-rises
will the courage to close eyes
and he will lay back in his canoe’d fartsack
and pull the mosquito netting close

say something nice ... or not

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