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.
   

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