Take No Sides

I wish I could write
My way out of this.
They’re right and I’m wrong.
I’m right or they’re wrong.
You’re wrong and you’re right.

A drive through dry woods,
Late fall in the west,
Paints the scorched trap best—
Drought-brown with gold flecks,
Crowns bronze or smoked black,

All the shades one mess
Thrown by what grows mixed
With what burned to death.
Each tint blends—right, wrong,
Soft, blessed, harsh, lost. Yes.