Sometimes I wake
At three in the morning
With elusive poems
In my head.
Like eating air
To lose weight.

They come and go
These naked Vietnam gifts
Without wrapping,
Gliding from
Window to window
Like ghost shadows.

Chirping cricket sentries
Guard against
Invisible enemies.

No rockets red glare
Flares popping in air.
Silence everywhere
With wind voices
Whispering through ancient oaks.

I think of Bob
Between his twin engines
On the delta
With snappy rounds
Piercing
Swift-boat aluminum.

Smallwood drinks a typhoon
Fifth of hot
Okinawa sake
Passing out
Dead drunk.
For three days.

Snipers seek me out.

I’m back in my house
Checking edged weapons
In the dark.
Making sure they are ready.

My army of knives
Wants me to sleep.

.