Trail Manor
1 Minute Read Time
Across the street, Trail Manor flows
in purple italics on a camper beside
a seasonally perky house. This is heaven.
Pajamas at the bus stop, yoga on a strict
schedule, a covert but growing gratitude
for sloth. Who’s walking with me?
Children I love. Yet I long to be a bare blue
between clouds, not looking down,
not looking at all, just an appearance
and later a disappearance, a state of matter
where words like mansuetude are not.
What do I have against gentleness?
Why do I turn away from snow falling
on metal deer lit up by a string of lights?
Read more from Issue 15.1.
