Third Landing: Fishing

Once more the ditch
An ocean of bodies now
Too many to count
Small and smaller
Glistening
in the morning sun . . .

Walking on bodies,
we fish out a little boy.
I hold him by his small shirt.

A little boy--a little boy about Bucky's age
limp, but breathing.

He looks at us like he's a thousand miles away
on some distant mountain.

He's as light as a leaf.

I take him in my arms.
I fly him out of hell . . . ah!

I bring him to a nun in Quảng Ngãi City.

I always wanted to fly.