John Sibley Williams

The sun has grown gruesome
and given consent
to keep harvesting
the burnt field.  
We haven't learned
to say no.
An indifferent tractor
kicks up ash
and crow shadow.
We thank upward
outside us
and stone.

Within this shared body
it's civil to believe in
a fallow and burning word
for green. Let's say
verdant. Let's say
impossible return. A hole
in the center of every word
shaped like an exit.
There is no shame
in not speaking it.
     That

there is no word for the act
but an alphabet of consequences.
The existence of crows
understood by their shadows.
     I don't know what I've done

to the field.
But I do not own it.
The wall

I don't remember erecting
around my home
is still a wall.
I cannot choose
the side I'll die on.