5379. BY THE BIVOUAC'S FITFUL FLAME

BY THE BIVOUAC'S 
FITFUL FLAME

I am reading my Walt Whitman while campfire water

boils : cannonade, a fusilier, one of those assholes has

been shot again. Needing to cleanse a wound (I am not 

here making tea), the hottest water can be is best. I

watch the writhing man and wonder of the elements

of this nature I am amidst. How can any of this be?

The hottest that water gets is when it then transforms.

And is no longer water but this scalding steam that's

worse than flame. I've seen such men  -  tortured dead  -

by the exploding scald of locomotives boiled or cooked.

Even the vast wonder of skin flays red and dies when

reached by water in that form. So all this life? Nothing

then but a momentary and elemental form of what we 

are for now. Bring that beggar to me, over here; I'll cut

that wound and grind that bullet, remove it with this

steel blade knife end; all-I've-got anyway. He'll wince -

the dumb shit - and then only maybe die emptied of his

slug at least. I'll go back to reading my Walt Whitman 

again, not even written yet, but who cares. In times 

such as these, men falling around and smoke, there 

is no  time at all  -  and anyway, I wouldn't notice.