forest fire tell me i am not the only who is here to swallow flames? i don't want to be a fighter anymore. i want to be the moss whose grandchildren talk about green like it is a gone island. i look at my block & see a colony of matches. walking with a bucket of water. i can't do this. i can't anymore, seeing how many burns a building can wear before it is condemned. my first boyfriend & i used to collect lighters. flick them open & find anything to light. calendars & brush & bruises. each other's tongues. i am no longer convinced grow-back is coming. smoke comes like antelope, galloping alleys. i'm asking then, are we gone?