There was a battle here
Above the bunker
I still see it through my periscope, tiny and intense
A pinpoint on the sidewalk like the sun through a lens
Moving with me through time
Moving but not moving
Anchored in the seabed
A boat swinging in the storm, creating wakes like white flowers
Brief blooms obliterated by black water
I go back, I come forward
It’s a cyclical thing
Underground again, watching from a distance
And then, white flowers dying