Washing Up
Slippered
and early
at
the sink when the rock
is
spotted at the distant
end
of the universe - less
than
millimeter thick -
outside,
the garden
plucked
with
snow, quietness
drifts
like a river
bed
- I slide
glasses
through
the
dense, steaming
water,
feeling their perfect
weight
- the rock exclaims
soundlessly,
listening
or
not.
I
remember dreams
filled
with nothing
unfamiliar
- a visit
to
the shops covered
in
cat hairs and yesterday's
take
away - you
on
the sofa
reaching
for your phone -
reflections
always - yale
dusks
in windows, fog
lights
floating
over
snow, preening
in
the loneliness
of
it -
a
sudden and fleeting eternity,
every
eagle blinks, the rock
is
gone. I hang the tea towel
over
the cupboard door.
GJ Hart currently lives and works in London and
has had work published in Isacoustic, Nine Muses Poetry, 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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