Adam Jon

You’re more the same,unchanged, unaged in your celestial transit. I am unfamiliar to my younger self,ripened and bearded,a crucible, a failure of trajectory,and there’s no direction namedfor the way I look to you. Pieces of me remain, still:I still stutter,wake to watch thunderstorms,sip water from the tapand stare out my window,water over my lips and… Read more: Traveling Twins

​I can’t keepguns, soit’s me and my cats. ​They’re great hunters, cats,but terrible hikers,as trustworthy as I am.So, out here, nothing separates me ​except ​twenty miles of limestone,dirt finer than bone meal,ghosts of limber pinestunted and brittled,dry air and drier snow, ​and the wish of—of annihilation by meteorite. ​Long odds, I know—staring down the cragof… Read more: First Things Last

When I die I’ll still be reading this poem to you in this momentlike an orange,sliced and sweet,at an unmarked crossingthirty-two years in the future. I’ll be in a bad state that night,but remember how alive I am now:the anxiety of my breathagainst tangled steel,the tremble of my fingers on thispage and the steering wheelwith… Read more: Slices/Immolation