Pylons of hay prop up the sky.


A tower of straw as a model

for structure,              and deep in its shadow

the very hands that made this image of field


reduce the field with a word,              and the stars



It seems we’re forever:

mining the soil for what it means to be flat


while being

flattened by dreams that believe themselves mountains.


In time everything green learns to grow



As we die in our image while the image





No closer to meaning, the light                       angles penitently



enslaved by what it conveys,


aching to be nothing                again.



by John Sibley Williams


John Sibley Williams is the author of eight collections, most recently Controlled Hallucinations (FutureCycle Press, 2013). He is the winner of the HEART Poetry Award and has been nominated for the Pushcart, Rumi, and The Pinch Poetry Prizes. John serves as editor of The Inflectionist Review and Board Member of the Friends of William Stafford. A few previous publishing credits include: American Literary Review, Third Coast, Nimrod International Journal, Rio Grande Review, Inkwell, Cider Press Review, Bryant Literary Review, Cream City Review, RHINO, and various anthologies. He lives in Portland, Oregon.

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