I built my temple in the place
Where the biologists claim
“Dead Matter,” “Bits of vanished tissue,”
“Evolution’s failed lot.”
And the reception changes.
I become myself
Despite the verdict of obsoletion,
Of mechanical absolutes.
The spirit is not lodged
Here or there. It can be missed
But not dissected.
There’s no getting out of the world,
Even in death.
You vanish almost completely
But arise again.
It takes a little rain
Falling in other centuries,
A roll of the die.
That troubled spot you can’t move past
Is where you built something holy once before.
You don’t remember, but the fire was dear to you.
It helped you love your losses.
It taught you to rebuild.
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 Chiron Review, Pretty Owl Poetry, Psaltery & Lyre, The Hamilton Stone Review, VAYAVYA, Gingerbread House, Gravel and Zetetic: A Record of Unusual Inquiry. Visit him at www.sethjani.com.