Young lieutenants at End-Evening-Nautical-Twilight

180 miles east
of Los Angeles’ pointless summers
ran
shaven,
heady,
lieutenants
low-spark’d,
high-heel’d,
bat-faced
wayward boys, they
counted
coup
like crazed cats
their innumerable, mounting losses
angel, dawn
devil, dusk
twilight
preceding death,
by not natural-causes

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