I pass the abandoned farmhouse
and the nocturnes fill me up
like homicidal urges.
It is hard to be equitable
in this bent-down palace
of purple trees.
It is lined by moonlight,
by the fabulists who throw
strange seeds over the frosted grass.
Maybe it’s the baby crow
I buried in the backyard
who will guide me.
Maybe it’s Elohim,
or some verdant spirit posing
its green challenges.
The heart is a receptor
and the spores of discontent
float down like snowfall.
In the forest, we try to solve
the agendas of ice.
They seem almost too clear
at first, too transparent.
All those riddles, just shining back
endlessly like our own reflections.
And yet, when we step out from
the aberration of our dim-lit houses
our minds are a kind of sky.
Eventually, when the forest is destroyed
the remaining birds will inhabit our perceptions
like a darkened road.

Seth Jani lives in Seattle, WA, and is the founder of Seven CirclePress. Their work has appeared in American Poetry Journal, Chiron Review, The Comstock Review, Rust + Moth and Pretty Owl Poetry, among others. Their full-length collection, Night Fable, was published by FutureCycle Press in 2018. Visit them at

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