Once More into the Ia Drang

It is dark. I am lost. It is noon. I am blinded
by fire from the hills. Day, words, time, desire
are eclipsed.

I stepped away from my desk to stretch my legs
in the park. The sun warmed my face
as I walked by the fountain.

I called his wife when I returned to the States:
I knew him. I am sorry for your loss.

At midday our patrol crosses the perimeter
into the Ia Drang. I am an officer, charged
with the care of the men. The wind blows warm
from the delta at dawn and hot
from the hill country at noon.

Sleep, dawn, direction fail me. Time
is forever noon and hot, words
forever eclipsed.

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© George Miller 2005