Adam Jon

I imagine it ends slowly, so
I move at the speed of small fire—
ritual ignition.

My smoke knows which way is up.
I wrestle with the match,
the still engine held in compression.

Let it happen
as I search for the tamp,
in a single, blue exhale.

I sit in the river,
water and stone
curling, rectifying.

Sunlight splits vapor and current—
orange and slate,
sparks
a tedious idol.