IN THE HEYDAYS OF HIS EYES
(taut jeans dancing)

An Anthology of Poetry about Being Young and Growing Up
 
 
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THE INSERT

R. L. Barth

Our view of sky, jungle, and fields constricts Into a sinkhole covered with saw grass Undulating, soon whipped slant as the chopper Hovers at four feet. Rapt, boot-deep in slime, We deploy ourselves in a loose perimeter, Listening for incoming rockets above The thump of rotor blades; edgy for contact, Junkies of terror impatient to shoot up. Nothing moves, nothing sounds: then, single file, We move across a streambed toward high ground. The terror of the insert’s quickly over. Too quickly…and more quickly every time…

 
 
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