Issue No. 18, Autumn 2016

Seth Jani

Distillate faces,
Going through
The eerie margins
To the place
Of crystalized light,
Of spacious winds
That blow all day
And never stop,
Never fade into
A grove of aspens.
We become ghosts,
Or maybe we become
Solid beings,
Always drifting back
To our lack of substance,
The mirage of colors
We call the soul.
In the port of final anchors
We set down
Our quiet golden weights,
The ones we have been
Building for many lives.
Eventually even the spectral
Captain fades.
We become those darkened stones.

Seth Jani currently resides in Seattle, WA and is the founder of Seven Circle Press ( His own work has been published widely in such places as The Chiron Review, The Hamilton Stone Review, Hawai`i Pacific Review, VAYAVYA, Gingerbread House, Gravel and Zetetic: A Record of Unusual Inquiry. More about him and his work can be found at