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Monsoon Season A river shines in the jungle's wet leaves. The rain's finally let up but whenever wind shakes the foliage it starts to fall. The monsoon uncovers troubled seasons we tried to forget. Dead men slip through bad weather, stamping their muddy boots to wake us, their curses coming easier. There's a bend in everything, in elephant grass & flame trees, raindrops pelting the sand-bagged bunker like a muted gong. White phosphorus washed from the air, wind sways with violet myrtle, beating it naked. Soaked to the bone, jungle rot brings us down to earth. We sit in our hooches with too much time, where grounded choppers can't fly out the wounded. Somewhere nearby a frog begs a snake. I try counting droplets, stars that aren't in the sky. My poncho feels like a body bag. I lose count. Red leaves whirl by, the monsoon unburying the dead. I3 0 N EON V ERN A C U L A R ...

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