Purity of Intention

My eyes are drawn to a curious photograph:
West Point cadets, a coffin, scarlet sashes;

On the shelves a book on The Howitzer
A nervous dog named Monty -- it all adds up,

And I know why I am so comfortable.
I love military people. Like Tibetan monks,

They live in the close awareness of death
And it gives them a practical, matter of fact

Approach to things. No fuss about getting naked;
We're here for a massage, for heaven's sake.

Harder here. Do there again. Some more pressure
Right there: ah. That's good.

No ceremony on leaving. She's off to take a bath
And I let myself out of the well-ordered house;

Grateful for the clarity, the demarcation,
The purity of intention.