Not for the Squeamish

Mission

Mideast desert
gives the illusion
of clarity
with its vast dead plain
and burning blue above,
but then the winds rise up
and bury sky with earth.

House to house
or on the open road,
a spatter of gunfire,
a brilliant blast
and shrapnel flies
burrow into flesh,
lay steel larvae.

One moment
all’s clear,
the next I can’t
see my hand
in front of my face
and there is no sandstorm,
or face.

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