The Newport News Shipyard dares
me to buoy yesterday's image,
urges me to hold anchors of gold
like the aircraft carriers
carving waterless bays
in the shipyard shore. Dragon
eyes, are those spike-fire stares
from a gray face of seafaring steel?
Behemoth, are you a city longing
the main, eager to cast
F-16s skyward
from the Atlas arms of catapults?
Brother speaks of you, and speaks
of submarines
slipped from trial, sterns
venting steam, lamp black,
feeding on fresh torpedoes.
The shipyard surfaces
like thunder in thought waves,
revealing gunwale blue,
yellow booms, washed out decks
of white.
Challenged by a force, shrouded
by the James River fog, swirling
and billowing, Atlantic horizon
consuming vessels
welded in the draft
of the shipyard's sunlight.
© Copyright 2019 teargen. All rights reserved.
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