Beyond the heading
stone the sky
is working storms,
but going, you do it
well,
in slippers
quick to the heading
stone, till your
name turns to a battered
tin, or grasp
every hand flowering
the way, arrange
your bouquets
in rooms bistered
with silence.
You - sincere
as single things, a cup,
a plate and soon
what breaks
will not be swept away.
So three times round
the drinking elm, once
around the pit, you sit
slicing tears
into your throat.
GJ Hart currently lives in London and has had pieces published in The Molotov Cocktail, The Jersey Devil Press, the Harpoon Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.
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