by Benjamin White
Covered by covering fire
Angels desire the sunrise
And pray for the night to end
As tracer rounds arc over
The haunted sounds
Of screaming foxholes
Empty
Except
For the souls of boys
Still stuck in the mud
With their thick blood
Dripping
With shell casings.
As he spoke,
The Master Sergeant
Unconsciously touched
The side of his head
Where his ear
Used to be.