I Far Prefer its Troubled Flicker

One damp twig,

then another,

onto a fire that is more

snap and smoke

than heat.

It is too small, and too sad,

and keeps my hands

just warm enough

to hurt.

Yet, it is also

the only thing that

keeps me

from being swallowed

by this vast, corrosive night.  

And I far prefer its troubled flicker

to the garish summer bonfires

of easier times.