THIS IS FOR SOLDIERS

dressed in temperate-zoned madness in the middle
    of a desert   thinking of their wives their children
seeing a friend’s torso blown out of their sphere
    Nothing but their heartbeat left in their friend’s throat
that stands there   what else does he do? skull jabbed
    with sharpness     shrapnel inner-wall screamed  
the kill-zone   slopes    the green glow of sludge
    of death oozes like broiled titanium   combustions   
sinkholes   If anyone disturbs the skull it will rise up
    like a sword   Sir Thomas Browne said that in nature
there are no grotesques    he was right    man makes
    grotesques     Reconstruction of whatever it was
that killed the lights   What glows   Ghost wardens
    still stealing still spinning in some cold place
like steel blurs in abandoned prisons    familiar spirits  
    ancestors understanding lustrous black nights    
Vanishes this life vanishes quickly     like a former love    
    like a wife’s husband in a war      I remember
how she had vanished she had vanished frontally 
    coppernosed aglow leaving heavenly prospects
flakes of Golden Alps   pulled obscure tendons   
    background check over my shoulder solidity reformed  
curls its tail on a cold fruitless moon-lit night