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--- L E T I T I A   T R E N T


Blue trailer-houses lined careful as garden 
artichokes. Exercise daily: Walk with the Lord.

A rusted wagon wheel propped against the rotted porch rail, Christmas-light lined. The truck-stop sign's hand-painted

on scrap ply. I measure the script—it's thin as a nail slip. Behind my eye I see the station owner's wife, squatting tippy-toed

in flip-flops, sucking her lower lip, flipping her Guide to Basic Calligraphy. An upended, pink-streamered tricycle, wheels still spinning in blue. Wake up America! The tight band of skin between the pregnant woman's hem and the toothy elastic of her stirrup pants casts an underlying

bruise of blue. Judgment is near. Jesus is coming. On the truckbed before us a rope unravels and releases row after row of steel rebar down

into the waist-high grasses as we watch and follow. Our God is an Awesome God. We figure we should call someone

but there's been no service since Seminole's last historic brick. We don't know what the future holds, but we know who holds the future.

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