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The genes.

The pull of my grandfather's train.

The Missouri tracks,

And the dress she wore,

His first love,

As she lay on the wet Midwestern grass.

The genes.

The pull of my grandfather's sword,

The horse he wanted me to ride,

An Arab horse,

Indifferent to Slavic fury,

And Persian saddles.

The genes.

Is there perhaps

Something lost in-between?

A secret will?

An encrypted text?

An idle screen?

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