Spring, Fort Bragg
In spring in the pine foothills
of North Carolina
the wind pulls
mustard yellow curtains
across the firebreaks.
Pollen collects
on week-old rain puddles
where mosquitoes breed.
Yellowed camouflage trucks
no longer green and brown
but an even matte yellow.
Yellow paste makeup
covers even the eyelashes
of the Marines, changes them
to the ghosts they will become
given time and war enough,
colorless death pallored
faces in blank pine boxes.
–08 May 2005