Written by James Wolff
This place is simply used.
Like a shell,
our cosmic bastion has run dry
of the things we need to survive.
The future we feared is present
and simultaneously future as well.
It seems a disgrace
that we could call such a place
Strewn about, there are hollowed shells
of bullets and
of bodies that
rose and fell against concrete stained by men
for men who served man after man;
shells that were held by one girl
that reminded her of the beach;
a jar of the like, which were all homes at one point,
then washed to shore after they were used;
shells that she held close to her
while fearing what came next.