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fdelano

At Last

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fdelano

At Last

 

On Easter morn

we lift off, shakily,

in a bucket of bolts

held together, or not,

with skill and spit.

 

Another day in Paradise.

Just low scud over the Nam

and cool at angels two-five.

Last sortie carrying thoughts

of back in the world.

 

Screeching strobes stir

the steaming jungle

with seeking scythes

and forever seconds.

Constricted sphincters, all.

 

Upside down and pull

of stick to fly the crescent,

only to confront the same

indifferent homing hunter.

Pilot, break the other way.

 

Please.

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