I

The veins of leafless alders arch toward hard weather
As mine stretch into my own occult interior.

We encounter stairs, pavings sober as fishbones, amid
Moss (uproarious, chartreuse), amid profuse but pallid weeds.

Ghost rooms outlined by this simple maze, mystical
Glyphs strewn in the grass for hawks to apprehend.

One day, down came barracks and latrines; now only picnic tables
On the bluff look west where Russkie rockets remained intangible.

From this hill our missiles were to arch to that heavy weather—
Our trusty equipment defending our children, the interior.

II

These America’s sacred ruins, scenes of glory: gizmos, dogma, loathing;
Our blighted history, of ever-defunct artillery, vigilance without end.

At Forts Casey, Worden, Ebey, Nisqually, the Great War’s sepulchres
Are ammo dumps and concrete bunkers, gun emplacements altars.

Our boy will clamber their cannons, explore each blasted warren
In the cliff, try to heft painted shells jaunty as bollards on the vast lawn.

Tonight we leave the austere park from which Our Boys, no doubt
Disgruntled, carried out their recessional from holy war— phased out.

Along this forest trail, breezes cruise through lean young trees;
Tonight bullfrogs will chant their love in Tibbett’s swollen creek.