In tight sunlight, Dante carries load for possible. Injections panic, hope smooth out. Trees, bend expressions filled by taxonomy, insist on green. A fox has path. Stopping in a moment and a crow knows. Purpose in the air of trees sulky for just steps towards furtherance. Hell scripted, armed, and dallied with, infer no. Notice human hand tryst with the sum of every nothing. Doctrines fake out, earth provokes. “Thou hast a fiery soul for numbing work” Quote: Antigone, Sophocles
poems, fireflies...