Compass

Struck by nothing
While the porch gathers light
On an evening in early winter,
You think the branches
Are a kind of navigation,
A geography in moonlight.
Across the dark, the drip of stars
On Chicago streets
Becomes alternately flame and flower.

The springtime says
“These things will bud and acquiesce,
The mystery churn forth flexible truths
From the ripeness of berries.”
Sad hearts, like ephemera from
Vanished lives,
Bend on the boughs and sing.

Seth Jani was raised in Western Maine. He is the founder and editor of Seven CirclePress and his own work has been published widely in such journals as Writers’ Bloc, Foundling Review, Hobo Camp Review and Gutter Eloquence. He currently resides in Seattle, WA.

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