The Landing

By Paul Muldoon (The New Yorker, April 21st 2003)

A full moon. A squid hauling itself through the shallows.
Its shadow skite along the seabed
easily mistaken, wee one, fo the unbashedness
of an amphibious vehicle
armed with a .50-calibre Browning machine gun,
the tank exonerating itself from the carrier
easily mistaken for a truck
offloading blankets and medicine,
the truck so easily mistaken for the divan
on which we've made another hand-over-fist
attempt to cover our asses
and leave some wiggle room.
A full moon, wee one. The squid flutters its eyelid.
It shines a beam on the seabed to cancel its own shadow.