helicopters

falling from the trees,
we let them spin and drift
like sailors, drunk with gin,
watched them circling
towards the tongue of the river,
then.. disappear

faces hot with sweat
and dreams of the real ones,
smelling of big adventure,
Platoon - Apocalypse Now
and named Cobra,
Black Shark or Mangusta

They would take us
to places we saw on tv with
bold men fighting for what
we hoped was right and
all afternoon, dirty hands and

scratched hearts we let them
fall and fall until the sun came down
and our knees started bleeding

until the rotors spun in our heads
until we were almost there and
until the trees had lost all their seeds


linking up with emily at imperfect prose..