Stovetop Trance

The blue curl of the gas,

licks the pan's dull black base.

It is a breath, a fleeting pass,

a small, contained, dangerous grace.

I watch it, too long, too close.

The perfect cone, the deeper heart

of orange. How it grows and goes

and never quite tears itself apart.

It holds me, this steady, burning thing.

My mind empties, just the hiss and glow.

No past, no future, just the sudden sting

of heat if I lean too far, too slow.

It is a clean hunger, a pure desire.

To simply be that constant, hungry fire.