Andrew Grace

from sancta

Exit cabin. You walk the woods as if in a hospital ward: noiselessly, with some sense of guilt about being whole. Silhouettes rave in the backlight. I ask you a question and you let it blear across the silence. Exit sun. Your snared attention flails in your gray eyes. When we reach the lake, there are elderly couples walking like incurables taking the air. We walk in step with them.