IN THE FIREPLACE
Cold brick curbs the dark,
Burnishing black with smoke.
Within the dark, arch iron ribs
Burdened with forest oak.
Chalked with ash and embers,
The brick deflects and dims
The spark that beats against the cold
That frosts the gnarled limbs.
Kindling fingers light, then limbs,
And set the dark afire.
Within the hearth, the fever burns,
Writhes, and reaches higher.
Through the scorching skeleton,
Across calloused skin of bark,
Flames flare and hiss and blaze upon
The being in the dark.