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Desert Soldier’s Night Breeze

​Still air holds the night in this land with no green,

Sounds die immediately soaked up by the dunes,

Generators hum while soldiers sleep and sweat,

Ninety-one degrees, midnight, we begrudge rest.

Sitting alone, I write, the gooseneck lamp watching.

I miss my Gulf breeze, screened windows, stirring leaves,

The gentle drift of wind across our legs and shoulders,

The fog horn at the bay entrance calling us in the night.

I miss you – there, next to me, your soft sleepy breathing,

Even when air stood still, that was no problem.

Still air always awakened you as it does me.

I miss our silence, though we knew the other awake,

You lay with no shirt, tiny droplets on your breast.

I miss your taste at the nape of your neck, your hair,

I miss the curves of your body cupped in my hand.

I miss knowing we would love each other in the dark stillness.

Your storm, rippling muscle and moans, our final exhaustion,

The small pool of dampness in the cleave of your chest.

I miss our changing the sheets together,


Flapping sheets

moving air

out the screened window,


The Gulf of Mexico breeze.

Published: “Desert Soldier’s Night Breeze,” Edward G. Gauthier, The Journal of the Image Warehouse, The Image Warehouse Press, 103 Larkin Street, Athens, Texas  75751,  2004, Vol. 1, Issue 1, page 12.

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