In state this new world Achilles, he of translucent glow rests, world weary: Oblivious to commanders. Those reticent masters of the bayonet charge, lauded yet by those similarly inclined. Ten miles beyond the sordid scope of battle, only Generals die in bed. Our Achilles, little known disparager of war, of wattle and daub beginnings. Called upon by those ten miles behind and more. Still he hastens to the tabernacle, anticipating, and in movement turns this subtle rendering of thought to action, and amidst the pandemonium reveals the grist of long hallowed heros, lost. Beneath pastoral sentiments, Medicis waxy figures of anatomical perfection lie still, slumbering. White chalk embraced, the smooth patina of innocence. Subterranean vaults not one, yet memory holds hard the sacrosanct, here amidst man made deposits. What great subterfuge in the enticing, these young cohorts of Achilles. A whisper resonating ten miles behind or more.
The italicized reference does not denote the name of Homers Achilles but modern-day soldiers in the Achilles tradition.
Taken from: DIVERTISSEMENTS LOVE WAR SOCIETY Selected Poems Nicole Alexander. Pub 2008 The Poets Network