Your skin feels like burnt paper.

Last words like ashes,

Eyes like sand.

Zero, this is Three-Two Bravo…

Dead leaves in water,

Floating in a wadi.

Smoke, thicker than air,

The gasping breaths of a dead LAV.

standby for nine-liner. Over.

Lingers, floats, curls and spirals up like a spirit

Over the ghosts of ourselves we left behind in a grape field,

Twisted and wrecked like scarecrows in a wasteland.