21:12, mirror hour

Twenty-one twelve: 21:12. The two and one of the hour flip in the minutes, one and two. A reversed mirror hour in the early night, dinner done, the house beginning to settle into its quieter rhythm.

Six, and tonight it wears a particular face: chairs pushed back in, one lamp left on, the day handed over to the house. The flip suits the hour, two-one becoming one-two, the order of the morning read out backward. Nothing at 21:12 asks to be started. It asks to be set down.