If they spilled out, what would we find:

Our empty shell casings,
casings still full of nightmare?

Silk rugs with half-moon motifs,
the birth of white elephants?

Would pages of our journals
blow about the pier

and photos of our wives
be exposed to the wind?

Would letters from children
we haven’t met shrivel

and smear in the sand,
leave their mark of crayon?

Could the entire war leak out,
shaking us awake again?

Black crates wait,
brass handles wrapped
tight in cellophane.

My crew carries on,
our inspection is so simple:

The proper paperwork, reactive
chemicals, unclogged vent holes.

Set these off to the side, coffins
require a special bill of lading.

Boxes: They seem so small
in these rows that grow

despite all the cranes and barges,
despite all our repositioning.