fourteen shortcuts through the long green, scribbled between breaths. some are proper trails. most are not. read the hazard line twice before you go.
skip the bridge. hop the flat rocks. saves you eight minutes and one traffic light.
a torn spot in the neighbor's hedge. built for kids and skylas. cuts the block in half.
the service alley behind the thrift store. dumpster on the left holds treasure once a month.
zig zag between the four leaning stones behind rose hill. mercy calls this one home turf.
someone left plywood on the retaining wall behind the laundromat. it's basically a runway now.
skip the curb, land on the grate, launch off the second one. two-step cadence only. one-step is a bad time.
back door of the bike shop is propped open in summer. cuts through the workshop. wave at ted.
seth's sunset broadcast route. stone stairs behind the umbrella observatory. best sky in the city.
south-side window sticks. slide it up, slip in, land on the biography aisle. miranda approves.
walk the counter side, exit through the kitchen door. the cook winks. do not stop for pie (you will).
forgotten stone stairs under the overpass. all moss. all shortcut. leads straight to the park.
only used when i actually mean to be still. patrick has coffee ready before i ask.
the field itself. not a shortcut to somewhere — a shortcut to the version of me that's easy to be around.
not really a shortcut. more of an endpoint. every path in this notebook eventually turns and points here.
fourteen ways home. only one of them matters.
—
hazard — —
sense — —