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The day we drove across Wyoming, I pinned
my fears on home; your children’s resentments
followed me west, shadowing me like bad weather.

The geology itself was an aftermath,
wind-scarred and cragged like an enduring face—
that kind of beautiful. From Riverton

to Hell’s Half Acre, I brooded; your confusion
blurred the periphery. I wish I could
explain my anger, the menace of my dread. . .

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