person GJ Hart, one poem

GJ Hart currently lives and works in London and has had stories published in The Molotov Cocktail, The Jersey Devil Press, the Harpoon Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.


The Ghost of Mole Hill

Not a soul on The 5.20
Except me, sitting
across in a seat
Silken over blacklands
And loam, a fleet ghost
Through newbuilds
and pubs.

If not dead it is me
Grown old
only four stops From London,
I search For my ticket
Like I’m fumbling
A telegram –
there have been
Many delays,

But now morning
Has completed
Its industry, offers
Anything if grey and nothing
Has changed –
The gap patched with ply,
I climb the gate
just a fucking field.

I remember pumpkins
like litters
Of suns – now fallow
And grief
Is gravity here, weights the weed’s
Gaze, turns the bird’s keys
Black –

I close my eyes and play:
Each time you rise up
I pound you back down
Again and again
And again.


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