Ignite was a language when we, trees. The time in the way of being in the time near time when we could be, that was nearly timeless. We could say anything and a crowd or almost and some agreed, we were for fighting or fitting. Each word remained in the time or until. We sent messages or reminded ourselves that messages were peering. And the days of delivery, those august days that were or were not really, over the coastal plains and into the fat bring landscape, we heard mountains once. We had time for nothing but nothing had time for us. So the language, in conspiring sentence of logic, albeit logic grew that moist and flowing, like something meaning nothing more. Later anger became present anger, yesterday’s sad brush painted something today. No guns were reported to have spoken. We didn’t have time, much as time liked us.
poems, fireflies...