Ash in the gutter. Cold in the bone. We push the cart through the world alone. One blanket. One can. One flame kept low. The boy holds on — I never let go. If he is not the word of God, then God never spoke. Still, we walk the ash. Still, we carry the smoke. Carry the fire. Carry the fire. When the night takes the sky, you still carry the fire. Keep it in the ribs. Keep it in the wire. Carry the fire. Carry the fire. He dreams of the sea and the old green trees. I dream of his hands that are holding the keys. No bird in the branches. No color remains. Only gray on the hills, only love in the chains. What was left was love. Thin as a thread. Hard as a nail. A small, bright order moving through the ash. And I tell him: “We are the good guys. We carry the flame.” Carry the fire. Carry the fire. When the dark comes down, you still carry the fire. Keep it in the ribs. Keep it in the wire. Carry the fire. Okay. He never asked for more. Okay.
