Among the dead in a stranger’s plowed field,
I stand alone with no sign of help. Almost
like the lunar surface, with only the ghosts
of dying Poplars surrounding me. ‘We’ll
make it back’ I tell myself, and realize
only these trees know this history, standing
erect with cold rusting barb wire banding
their pale trunks that have withered and dried.

I plant my tripod like the stainless legs
of a lunar-lander, attempt to frame
this vacuum of symmetry. And like
the perimeter, I remember we’re all vague
with brief lives, a flick of a shutter to explain
a few footsteps searching for returning light.