... poetry ...

… go west my boy …

“Go West, my boy.”
I hear my granddad say
two years from beyond his grave

so I pack my things and
run West, through bayous
plains, mountains, and deserts

chasing the slippery sun
through ever expanding skies
wider and wider they stretch

America opens herself up to me
and lets me look inside the secret
forgotten places

and finally I catch the West
and reach my hand into the shores
and pull up a fistful of sand

and I watch as it
sifts through my fingers
each grain vanishing in the breeze

and I find the boundary.
the end of the West and
the start of the sea

I want to press on, to trudge
forward into the depths
of that desert below the water

and my mind searches things
the deep things of this world
and I find that in its bigness

there is no running West at all
the call is just an echo
from my own side of the world

for no matter how far I run
eventually the round
West will
simply lead
me right
back
to
where
I
started
from.

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