dutch harbor
was bombed to
hell, during
the last great
war.
up on the hills,
getting battered by
the razor sharp wind,
and pelted
by needles of
rain,
like machine gun
fire,
you can find
little dug
outs,
and sit for a
moment to
catch your
breath, and imagine
Zeros
coming down
from on high,
screaming through
the clouds
and turning
everything and
everyone
around you to
torn apart
ruin.
there are pits
with old pieces of
wood and
metal -
rails,
used to traverse
the quad .50's
or 90mm's
around and
chase
those bastards
in the sky.
and the rest,
all craters now:
all
memories of a
distant place.
the islands are quiet
these days.
home to
crab
fishermen,
and lovers
of nature.
time moves slowly here,
and the sun doesn't
set,
but simply
vanishes sometime
around
11pm or so.
now there are only
crab boats
and
craters:
no more
zeros
screaming
in the
sky.
YOU ARE READING
Melancholia
Poesíapoetry takes us to so many places, and we take poetry to so many places. here are poems about places, and sometimes the people found in them.
