He had charged at me across the deep
swamp with a razor blade bound tightly to
a stick. On his body, we found a postcard
(with nothing on it) and a photograph of
an old man carrying a bundle of orchids.
There was no sign of his country, or faith.
This man who barreled towards me, while I
brandished a machine-gun, he was running
across a field of orchids, carrying a letter
writing itself, and he was, I know, racing
towards the whiteness of his glowing mind.