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.
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