*****
WAY OUT WEST
WHERE THE HOT SUN
BAKES THE FLESH
In the air,
in the very oxygen I breathe,
there is a presence,
a sense,
as though I’m being regarded…judged.
Not a Godly stare,
or ancient awareness.
…I look back to see my father,
or Great-great-great Grandmother,
seeing me as their clan cogent,
their diluted spirit docent,
I feel the hands outreaching,
in the words and songs worth teaching
And I reach for things they’re preaching
Sans sorrow and beseeching…
*****
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