O Father in the utter west,
They call the setting sun,
From grieving be my promised rest
When every day be done.
A thousand roads to elsewhere lead.
I cannot walk them all.
Hope fills me, though, for there indeed
I hear the sunset's call.
In fever-colored clouds of dusk,
On edge of shore and foam,
In mills that slumber into rust
O wait to lead me home.
In crossroad and in underpass,
On vine-choked railroad bridge,
In sound of wind through withered grass
Thy unseen presence is.
In empty motel parking lot
Where burns a lonely light,
O haunt me, when my grief burns hot,
With shelter for the night.
In autumn, in the sound of rain
And scent of petrichor,
O lead me home, that I may lay
My boots beside thy door.
I lay my clothes upon thy hearth
And need them no more then.
For in my heart I feel thy blood
Begetting me again.
Thy arms conceal me from the strong.
From grief thy name is rest.
And nowhere does my soul belong
Save laid upon thy breast.
O Wolf behind the westmost skies
Men call the setting sun,
I once was lost but now am thine
When all my days are done.
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