the silohuetteshapes startled
moved thunderously,
rumbled a quickened sandsilence
 
sar'ent said,
“—ideal is irrelevant.
they're comin' regardless.
our blood will make mud of this sand,
or their's.”
 
our eyes shadowed those
nightly mares—warned,
we turned, running
 
the hill ascended
was slight, but broken
i stumbled, my story
fell—nerves grainy
 
i stopped to save it
blood running
like black horses
arteries opened
a current, surging
 
my passage would not end
there, lost
amidst sunburnt,
granular mightbemud