I could write a poem just to see it flamed to ashes in the heat of the burning logs of organised and disorganised wood.
In this, the pattern would hardly matter; no attention to my personal interests and thoughts would be paid.
All that was red around would not be talked about;
Neither would I talk about the sound of the wood cracking, red in the fire.
What the two logs talked about when they burnt together – next to each other – in the blazing and popping fire, would not be talked about.
I would not, in the poem, talk about whom I met in the woods at the dusk when I had, but mere intentions of picking the dry twigs and logs around.
I would just write the poem, just to see it flamed to ashes in the burning fire.