To Lucasta, about That War

A long winter from home the gulls blew

on their brinks, the tankers slid

over the hump where the wolf packs hid

like voodoo talking, the surf threw

bundles with eyes ashore. I did

what booze brought me, and it wasn't you.

I was mostly bored. I watched and told time

as enforced, a swag-man

under the clock. The bloat-bags ran

wet from nowhere, selling three-for-a-dime

and nobody buying. Armies can

type faster than men die, I'm

told, and can prove. Didn't I find

time there and more to count

all, triplicate, and still walk guard-mount

on the gull- and drum-wind

over the hump? I did, and won't

deny several (or more) pig blind

alleys with doors, faces, dickers,

which during, the ships slid

over the hump where the packs hid.

And talking voodoo and snickers

over the edge of their welts, I did

what I could with (they called them) knickers;

and it was no goddamn good,

and not bad either. It

was war (they called it) and it lit

a sort of skyline somehow in the blood,

and I typed the dead out a bit

faster than they came, or anyone should,

and the gulls blew high on their brinks

and the ships slid and the surf threw,

and the Army initialed, and you

were variously vicariously and straight and with kinks

raped, fondled, and apologized to-

which is called (as noted) war. And it stinks.