Ghost

The migrant shadows
That are the leaves
At the end of autumn
Passing now into other
Distant summers,
Rust colored worlds
Far from here,
Are like small birds
Debating the dust.
Alternately feathered flame
And vanished body,
Eternal substance
In the spectral drift.
And when we lay under
Their flickering enigmatic light,
We too are half root and sinew,
Half verdurous ghost.

In Earthly Measures

In my dream of a white-stained eternity
There is a brisk fire in the grass,
There is a kind of honey
Forming in the arms of trees,
Entering the mouths of lovers
As some long summer drones on,
The pixelated clouds
Darting in and out of view.
This is no different from the world
We inhabit,
Our own bodies pressed against the night
Like brave receptors reaching out for being.
Knowing you is the privilege of many rounds
And atoms,
Of sheer, exquisite chance.
This morning in the darkened drive
Of a West Coast autumn
I am as taken by your dexterous body,
As by the endless, wild promise
Of that transcendent light.

Seth Jani currently resides in Seattle, WA and is the founder of Seven Circle Press (www.sevencirclepress.com). His own work has been published widely in such places as The Foundling Review, The Devilfish Review, The Hamilton Stone Review, Hawai`i Pacific Review and Gravel. More about him and his work can be found atwww.sethjani.com.