The Fifth Commandment

I have no predisposition for murder.
The Sicilian yelling down in the hole -
                          cell of the two-story jail where I'd turned him
          in for a knowledge of German; handkerchiefs tolen
          from the bald-headed policeman snoring after wine I'd insisted
          he open, and hare
were bloodless, on two days of battle.
                                    I was disgusted by the dirties of whores
lust ever lagged after.  Go to the bad booze
and the old lady selling the fanciest labels
around what must have been bilge illuminated by sunlight;
two stragglers drunk but dragged on the Italian patrol
                            where nobody shot, we walked into the emptiest world
tottering beneath headaches like what we bear from those memories.
Who recalls the slick, proud, contemptuous girls beside rich civilians
                                                                          in Naples
and the insolent, blonde, British-speaking old countess by Palermo
and the insane Indian I guarded; and the stolen duckeggs were smashed
                                                                       in my fatigues?
Who' found the hunting knife or the old pillbox revolver
I borrowed to go armed into an occupied town?  Whoever found the lock
                                                                           of his door shot and his
                                                                           door not opened?
I am safe; the lights have gone up and down but I was not executed
and can leep dull as before and after was, and I have nightmares
more terrifying than real, as bad as yours.