by John Sibley Williams
Why are there no more birds, he
asked me this morning from the center
of our dead lawn, his eyes
on the broken sky, stone and
shards of stars in his hand / why
can’t I hear their music anymore
I tell him nothing
exists that is not for you /
we must create
the forest to burn the forest
as I watch his curious fingers widen
the holes in his coat / as early
winter enters / I don’t know
if he’s already stopped
feeling the cold / if he sees
the moths
as they eat away the fabric
John Sibley Williams is the author of eight collections, most recently Controlled Hallucinations (FutureCycle Press, 2013). A four-time Pushcart nominee, 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.