scouldrons

there was a place in the soul where i considered.
it was a long-lost triumph of personality.
in the quaking midriff of absolution i found you there.
there were no trees.
in the desert the men were baking eggs on the scouldrons
and their kamph was as honorable as a decent wish.
they were wise as cats driven near water
and the sound of the trumpeteer playing taps was like ice.
in the heat of the moonlust
i saw a crescent oportunity
to write a fag, to believe in the difference
between mediochre and what i want.
there is no plaintive state between deliverance
and military pride, maybe,
when the driven are the justifiable wrought in fire.
fire, yes, the heat was like fire
and i was only there for a minute.