Make More Claymores

Previsions packed up with
C-rations, straps secured

with coils like bicycle chains,
strolling on in BDUs,

he had the necessary ease
of soul to kill a man,

owing to the Santa Ana breeze.

Briefly I saw him,

fired in the kiln of the Deep South,
hollowed by supervening

hands, cooling,
dragging a SAW up a hill—

revolution like red mud
through my grip, lip stiffening,

something to drink from

as pines daisy-chained out the window.