after the photographs of An-my Lê
The sea a blue prairie waving at me. The sky rewriting its history of clouds. A triangle of light advancing. Between the sky that is blue
and the sea that is blue, the smoking islands floating like ships. The ships. Black, flinty, right out of Homer. Rendezvous on a beach
between hovercraft and tank, the empty beach scored with swirling track marks. The two figures, soldiers, strolling like lovers,
armed and ready. The gray tide attacking an idea of the shore. The exhilaration of attack, the melancholy of retreat.
The many greens, the blues. All kinds of blue. The blue of flags. Blue metallic skin etched with blue insignia. My blue nights, my blue days.
Cloudlets. Cloud shaped like a frigate. Frigate cloud. Clouds general. Perforated, striated, puffy. Apocalyptic cloud kicked up by rotor blast of a Sikorsky
like a thick black curtain drawn over the staging ground, bloodless landscape in which the theater occurs. A would-be bomb in full bloom.
Landscape with howitzers. Landscape with unmarked airplane, trucks and Jeeps deployed for earthquake relief. Light infantry and heavy artillery.