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I watch them litter in Los Angeles,
hear the illegal bombs detonate
every Summer, thug life calling it all
the Fourth of July—but you know:

War is war.

I look East, to where my people
came from, bumbling West.

Wales.

Home of crusty shores, green valleys,
wet and medium cloudy and blue
skies in my dreams only, ‘cause
I’ve never been.

London has plays, football and a dry
wit, the foundation of English
there among the crags of Scottish
Highland wind—

Hope dawns in an Irish Spring, sing-
songing an accent, speaking of a golf
links well-played by a guy named Padraig,
green as can be, smoky over water
to the sunshine of a well-struck fairway
wood against thunder.

Rains all the time until it doesn’t, the clouds
yawning fog away and the rainbow
spawns a son, Gold not waiting at its end
but beginning when an “American” tired
of hidden Kennedy’s and covered up
Cold War murder returns.

“Repatriation” sings out to the conscience
of a man beat around the links too many
times by alcoholic graft.

I seek a putter from the rough, couldn’t
be happier I can see around the bush—

My 400 years of servitude in “America” perhaps
passing like a fallen mountain breeze.

Winter descends on trash in Los Angeles,
and I—

I seek employment in Montana with friends:

River called “Elk” or “Yellowstone” by other names
as flowing.

Constant is God’s invitation to Glory.

But we only accept when ready—

When we’ve put in the work, amended the
idiot we were to bring out the man
or woman ever-seeking the child within on
paths East toward Heaven.

Reborn is the sinner at admitting fault.
Love beckons the other half in me
unexplored.

Come with me to Livingston, in words
only if necessary, we like to keep it small.

The town is a river, mountains and changing
weather. This is God’s country at the hip
of National Park presence.

A break for many, exposure to the land.

The Indians had it right all along, never
cursing—always blessing the land.

Without good words, hold tongues.

I go East to Livingston, if she’ll have me.

A year or two, then Wales. Home.

400 years later, Watkins returns…
if she’ll have me.

If she’ll have me.

Heddwch fy mhobl

If she’ll have me!!!

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