by Seth Jani

Dusk comes to me
With all her baskets,
Singing.
I follow her through
The stages of night,
The degrees of darkness.
Awareness at this hour
Has a purple tinge,
And all our obsessions
Are exhausted.
The breeze undoes
The stolid points,
Opening pools
Where a feather sets down
And doesn’t vanish.
It will drift there forever,
Like the light that fell long ago
Across the shale roof
And still illuminates
The inner face of memory.
I come out of the forest
And almost believe there
Is really a ghost inside my body.
It’s just a name though,
Tied to a persistent illusion
Formed in the crucible
Of the moon and trees.


SETH JANI currently resides in Seattle, WA and is the founder of Seven CirclePress. His own work has been published widely in such places as The Chiron ReviewPretty Owl PoetryEl PortalThe Hamilton Stone Review, Hawai`i Pacific ReviewVAYAVYA, Gingerbread HouseGravel and Zetetic: A Record of Unusual Inquiry. More about him and his work can be found at www.sethjani.com.


Photo: “Dusk” by Susanne Nilsson