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And so would not leave The mountain ofbaggage. When the last truck deserted, groaning Through the great, beseiging mud, I saw the mound ofbaggage Begin to sink through the clay Like the hill ofa dead king Beleaguered by mosquitoes and flies Losing their way in the dark. Not knowing what this thing was That at last I climbed aboard, clambering over The musette bags which crunched Like eggs, the long case Where the guitar was straining its breast, Up the long, crumbling slope ofbaggage I sat in trashy triumph at the top, Knowing my own equipment, my own link With the past was buried beneath me, or lost, And not caring, not at all, But only knowing that I was there, Drenched in sweat, my shirt open down to my balls, Nineteen years old, commanding the beach Where life and death had striven, but safe At the top ofthe heap, in the dark Where no lights came through From the water, and nothing yet struck. Patience: In theMill Through a place in the roofthe sun came down Where in a hall oflight Mike Cole sat up, His menial harness broken on his arms. It shed a circle upon him, As ifhe certainly were blessed, to be filling the cockpit with blood Blushed eagerly from his face, And laid on the sunburst ofdials with glowing hands. Summons / 4 He could not look, but did, And saw a smear, like egg, on the ragged panel wiped. It was his other eye, which last had looked In seeing his engine die from a vibrant disk To four great innocent sails. Through his own incredible sternness Ofpain, he heard the sirens flare On the gunned dust ofthe strip, And motes from the stacks ofsugar whirled And unsupported slept upon the air, beside his props Like petals carved from offthe basined floor. A tooth lodged in his throat. He did not speak ofit, but a loft ofchildren In the light he had let in Were standing and piping. He could not sing with them, And almost wept, but like a child, forgot, And wandered, lost, among their faces, Opening the bags, tasting the slanted sugar as he would. The LiberatorExplodes There, in the order oftraffic Ofaircraft. Where one ofthem once Was moving, in a clumsy hover, It is like a blow through the sky That does not move. Why would you watch it Before it becomes offire? There are many arranged on the air. This one you might be watching, Held in a fear That contains no fear, but boredom, or fascination, As it turns on the final approach. Or you might be watching another That does not fall. The Liberator Explodes / 5 ...

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