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Little Bits of Prose, Poetry and Essays.
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You can follow
guitar strings home.
Past worn gates,
and autumn paths paved
with orange light, across
stone bridges and steel tracks
Through long and thunderous
nights where the stars were
canceled and there is only one
bit of lamplight on the horizon.
Beyond god’s front porch,
to the edge of the water.
You can hear them hum,
so listen and let them guide you.
Not home.
But where you need to be.