Quiet, a Momentary lull, crept Into our dugout bunker on Stealthy assassin’s feet Through the open ventilating door Bringing with it black burly Sergeant Freeman, who Placed his feet warily Surrounded by invisible Mine-detonating trip- Wires, the punji darts of his Vietnam Nightmares. He slipped Into my hammock. I’m not gay But I held him, best I could, While he shivered under The white detonations, thud- -ing mortar rounds Of my half-hearted handjob. – When a star-shell lit The sleeping men, he stole, quietly, Sleep-satisfied out across the camp, Once again his own Georgia.