Eric Paul Shaffer		More Firewood: After Doc Dachtler (for Steve Sanfield) Light, the first five paces, armloads of oak slowed steps like new ideas. Bark bit arms, limbs lined limbs, reddened skin. Fresh fire lit, two warmed twice by the same wood. At last, under stars, knots, only light.		My Grandmother's Dance It's hard to dance with one foot in the grave, but dance you did. You danced as if practice were perfection, and perfection were the only act. You were fat. You wore black. But you smiled and the grace your limbs stitched in shadow before a doorway limned with light was all I knew. Your dance was steps unknown to all but you, yet you danced. The day you danced was only days before the day you died. The light of the hall was gray and thin from the open door. Your hair was gray and thin, and you were the only one on that red-brick, steel-skyed street to ever express joy. I wanted it, and I still want it. I want more.