Seth A. Howard


This morning stillness hums, a metal
Wire pulled taut. Keystones of
Your past clink
In rays of moonlight. The glyph is
Your symbol rich ambition. & yet,

It is time. Some ash ring lifts from
Us. I listen. Day is a dry reed, life
A question that she runs
With. Sleep induced hallucination.

The geese have left for the winter.
Pools glint with cherry blossoms
& we call. The sky is held before
A power, the glazed grey stones,
The rain. We
Humans who aspire to greatness.

Illusive rays cut into true voids
As stars blink, now there, now
Gone. I long to
Go back to the city, city of my lost dreams.


Somewhere amid strands of light, a moth flutters into dust & forgetting.  Time is halved.  Orange road 
these motions, a maze or a mortician. 

Deep vermillion.  I see the moon glance off the waves, a glaze of suns submerged.

                                                                      O lost haven of childhood.

                                                                      Sequence of stars cross of   

visions in flowing silk & dry chambers.  I hear the rustle of leaves where the fountain gurgles & the girls 
splash in silences of autumn.

I asked her if she loved me, in the immortal afternoon.

                                                                      A sequence of elms a séance of waves.

I feel a cool wind of a day conjured.  “Let’s meet here, exactly a week later, from this present moment.”  
We agreed.  The night a black dragon (not crow), the sun a rose of fire.  


I begin with a breath, where the coin 
Is balanced on the edge.  

What does it mean to be a poet
But to endure?  These 
Folds of blue are tiny cranes.

The slow music remembered, or was 
It evoked?  I sit up.

My mind is full but empty of thought
I feel a quiet rage. 

Held in the bonds of history, kept still by the swans
That blend into the grey & green.
CALIPSO Somedays the rain is a goddess of pearl & her wrist A Pale moon The sun O tower of cities Where I call To no answer Life Ignites A Signal blinks in hungry voids I speak But Does she listen? Far Out A Cloud of Red A pond of grey & green In Settsu Pro vin ce They sip from gold-leafed bowls I call To the goddess Of Pale Wrists Hips Of Moonlight Mes cal ine Is.
LINES WRITTEN IN A STATE OF LIMBO To the inconsolable brave, to the soldiers of fire & freedom. Wake from your liminal sleep, in the fused shadows of dream. This vent through which the wind enters, a dark globe, or New Year’s bell. These fires, the white sheet cool in the watery temple. Drive, she said, along a surface. Within a depth, night enters & a child sleeps. I hear a song lift from the blue chasm, where she sews darkness into a shroud.

Seth A. Howard is the author of Out of the East, & Waters from a Well, two experimental chapbooks. His work has appeared in Otoliths, BlazeVOX [books], unarmed journal, Big Hammer, Oddball Magazine, Chronogram, Saudade, & Elephant. He graduated from the University of Connecticut, & attended Sophia University in Tokyo for three years. In his spare time, he enjoys the practice of Zazen, watches J-drama, & studies French in New London where he resides.
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