<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Leavening<\/strong><\/p>\n Forgiveness like leavening bread Like following the way down A bed of roses. Of rubbing stones, smoothing surfaces Want the easy open arms How it holds the snow Of death with his chilled Multiplicity of stones is also like this.<\/p>\n More than disregard, he forgives my intrusions, To count the stars,<\/p>\n Even whispers the names of constellations,<\/p>\n Of bodies I\u2019ve forgot.<\/p>\n He lets me leave while the wick of morning <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Seth Jani<\/strong> resides in Seattle, WA and is the founder of Seven CirclePress (www.sevencirclepress.com<\/a>).\u2028His own work has been published in such places as The Coe Review, The Hamilton Stone Review,\u00a0<\/em>Hawai`i Pacific Review <\/em>and <\/em>Gravel<\/em>.<\/p>\n
\nIn the dark heart of summer.<\/p>\n
\nTo where the columbine eats<\/p>\n
\nWater knows this work:
\nSlow moistening, the alchemy<\/p>\n
\nUntil they catch light reflections.
\nI want to be better than myself.<\/p>\n
\nOf the birch in winter.<\/p>\n
\nLike someone chandeliering
\nSomeone else\u2019s dangerous blue dream.
\nHow it\u2019s not afraid of ice,
\nOf the eventual frost breaking
\nThrough its bones,<\/p>\n
\nDeliberate eyes.
\nThe salamander beneath the slick<\/p>\n
\nLets me lay down in the grass<\/p>\n
\nBegins its fuse,
\nWhile the spilled riches of the sky
\nCover the Cascades, almost burn my hands
\nWith light.
\nThe miracle is that everything keeps on singing,
\nQuietly, beneath the mower\u2019s head.
\nThat there\u2019s still a place for the buzzing fields,
\nFor tiny doors through which the wind
\nSlips small meanings,
\nFor the purity of coming night
\nSettling over the horizon
\nLike a sheet of shining mica.<\/p>\n