Iwo Jima, glory on the hill.
You know what it looks like
and the million white crosses
rolling dirt sea to the east.
Melting summer day worms
black limos lined down the drive
high and tight genitals in blue uniforms
with gold stars assemble around
a hole in the ground, no one minding
off in the shade, a yellow excavator
that never goes deeper than six feet.
This poem too never goes deeper,
it is just a picture.