Trespassing.

Shots fired over No Man's Land
mark the arrival of the masked Trespasser.
They dive into the craters left
behind by some bygone barrage.
A perspiring sniper takes aim
and his trigger finger itches.
The Trespasser meets
the cross hair;
the Trespasser takes
the blame.

Without.

I am without myself.
A flat whisper through the trees
where once there was a hurricane.
The dullest of all aches
where once there laid the sweetest pain.
The sun sets into vanilla skies,
lest anything greater should be slain.
A slow burning match on an almighty arctic shelf.
Bind my hands and blind my eyes:
I am already without myself.