Seth Jani

 

 

 

Leavening

Forgiveness like leavening bread
In the dark heart of summer.

Like following the way down
To where the columbine eats

A bed of roses.
Water knows this work:
Slow moistening, the alchemy

Of rubbing stones, smoothing surfaces
Until they catch light reflections.
I want to be better than myself.

Want the easy open arms
Of the birch in winter.

How it holds the snow
Like someone chandeliering
Someone else’s dangerous blue dream.
How it’s not afraid of ice,
Of the eventual frost breaking
Through its bones,

Of death with his chilled
Deliberate eyes.
The salamander beneath the slick

Multiplicity of stones is also like this.

More than disregard, he forgives my intrusions,
Lets me lay down in the grass

To count the stars,

Even whispers the names of constellations,

Of bodies I’ve forgot.

He lets me leave while the wick of morning
Begins its fuse,
While the spilled riches of the sky
Cover the Cascades, almost burn my hands
With light.
The miracle is that everything keeps on singing,
Quietly, beneath the mower’s head.
That there’s still a place for the buzzing fields,
For tiny doors through which the wind
Slips small meanings,
For the purity of coming night
Settling over the horizon
Like a sheet of shining mica.

 

 

 

 

Seth Jani resides in Seattle, WA and is the founder of Seven CirclePress (www.sevencirclepress.com).
His own work has been published in such places as The Coe Review, The Hamilton Stone Review, Hawai`i Pacific Review and Gravel.

Visit him at www.sethjani.com.

 

 

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