Da Nang Moore

Dusty blood lands under
breezes too near to dare want
to calm winds or nerves -
severed by blows, steel -
igniting under cover of
missile.

Wits have stolen
the flank, the studious, those
who see enemy blood in
hills, lit by fire, khaki by
this name means war and
blood, then the sergeant.

Night peels into day,
the heat of napalm, curls
orange toward friendly fire,
run for life, for pilots
measuring by dust and trails
and lines drawn with bodies.

They are too many for training -
for the cavalry so fast, so light,
so carrying blood and guts and
artillery fire, flanking not or
Moore is not, and walk, run -
into nothing but courage.

Yes, it does not relent, this
smell of steel, shavings against
skin, easily daring life to begin
or end for those who dare to
look at it, facing the battle plan
that becomes nothing.

It is one that was won, was
honored as a tribute to skill,
tenacity, but bags were filled
with the fearless - they cover
blood and sweat with soft dust,
they wait for a new day.

© 2013 Larry Ingram