This Street, This Night
I walk from the salt
of
talk and hors d'oeuvres
and
tasteless dressing
of
hands out into coolly
uttered
mist -
grief
comes
with
the forgetting
of
it and no spade buries
shadows
-
I
stand drunk
and
starless - this street
once
rushed in like a couriered
heart,
the falling river set it
pounding,
now our rooms
barely
turn -
and
is endless as every
journey
we'll ever make -
we'll
travel in green
and
spears of lace and hope
when
the shortest day
calls
the longest night
our
day be bright
and
kind.
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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