The ghost laments in the burnt-out foxglove.
Eats the ash-filled apples, the phantom fruits.
The blueness of death filling the air
Like early spring.
His body fades, and he feels the wind
Expand his organs.
They burst like bulbs at high voltage,
Like blood clots to the brain.
In their place the simplicities of light,
Of hidden fractals,
Vanished joints that form new systems
Astral marrow, cartilage the color
Nerves like new philosophies,
Hesitant at first, then ending civilizations.
Among the conifers, the brackish undergrowth,
The memory of stilted fields,
The ghost is growing hexagonal wings
Bright as camphor,
Is setting dark, unnerving eyes
Like hot stones in his panicked sockets.
About the Poet
Seth Jani currently resides in Seattle, WA and is the founder of Seven CirclePress (www.sevencirclepress.com). His own work has been published widely in such places as
The Coe Review, The Hamilton Stone Review, Hawai`i Pacific Review, Gingerbread House and Gravel. More about him and his work can be found at www.sethjani.com.