Every Man's Hand

raised against them     hussars, cossacks, zouaves     the renegade janizaries and corsairs     in for an indeterminale stretch     assorted soldiers of furtune,     never-do-wells     or just low brows duelling crusts of bread     scarce precious little else     when for pennies more,     (Wellington's phrase)     the scum of the earth     enlists for drink.     Too harsh, I think, of     imagining the Foreign Legion,     kepis of scarlet     the near requisite haggard looks     moving in waves across the desert     pitting date palms with bayonets.     the occasional fellow ravaged by French pox.     Then dunes where water should be    -     storms granulating blown particles     twice the perimeter of a camel train     from whence decent men become driven     (as the desert fox) to crouch beside themselves     with poor material,     loose flintlocks and cartridge belts     rotting to the touch,     The pitched camp (I see brackish oasis glare)     stars big as pebbles in potato white     Napoleon before Cairo his soldiery and     ragged tents flapping like tongues     of pillaging Arabs (or later battlefield carrion wolves)     on the run from Allah and sweet date wine,     their torpid hooves sound against rock     matching wits grown sluggish in still more drifting     sand.     Noon and blood purring     like a two minute egg     over and over     the spitting, curses     mandatory flies and sweat     trickling on sandbags     from manured lives     little to eat -     C rations a century away,     the good populace begrudging meals     to vagabonds and trash anyway.     See the last desperation     in classic terms     betrayed by finite trength     brisk elements raise the odds     a measly temperature climb,     a few more driving winds to stir the pot     animal suffering dancing     like stretched canvas on thin frames.     The leading roustabout unflinching,     waves a stony mutineer's salute.     And somehow it always manages dawn     and the heat of the day wicked,     oblong in an empty stretch     forever, it seems, before bullets     open graveyards     mow the brigand down,     take the corpse for its own     mummifying with precious hands     about the contours of her desert body,     and firm cleavage     oscillating between curvatures of     desiccation, blanket heat.