his eyes pop and fall, plumetting thousands
of feet to the river rush rushing below. gold
reflecting off blue, refracting into his gaze,
shards of light to cause cataracts. he strikes
one, two, two more matches against a book,
eager to see the frantic flame pressed along
the carbonized sky, to see the fire gnawing
its way to the end of cardboard, 'til it zips
cleanly into a poof of charcoal smoke, soot
drifting slow to the water. a timid choice,
perhaps, or one of constraint, he bends,
like a wilting daffodil in the sun, to observe
the final rest, his creation of ash drowning.