No Hands By John Sibley Williams Regardless, the wheel steadies on. Fields blur into other fields. Things are born & unflower or deflower every acre. The highway moves without being moved by. You & I & what of home fits in a pickup bed. In the vacuum of passage, night animals go about mapping bodies, singling out the weak. We are failing what we fail to notice. An entire city in the rearview burning with torches, hunger, dead flags reborn. We call this flight to wash our hearts of it. We call these wings. Courage. Progress. Agency. No hands yet the road just keeps going — for us. Again we’ve left before another’s fire becomes our own.