Left in Vietnam

Under the canopy, my eyes swelter limp,
swooning, fuming, drying with the branches, mute
beneath the feeble still of rainclouds. Naked
windstruck hair spills like lukewarm sand
through pneumonia-tinted leaves, cancerous
pallor, of earthen rosewater skin.
My face, rotting in shade, stares frozen
at grey between flawless green, for the petals
of eden turn black to dusty flesh.