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37 Teens One part torn stepladder, one part battered swan, this morning—as every morning after prom— wet with sunlight, deer lie only slightly blooded, spread like hands with fingers broken off the road. We’ve sent the young ones on their way again, with hoopla, absurd costumes, fabric, flowers, flavored drinks. For a decade-and-a-half they were with us in, at times, happiness unqualified. This has not been true for several years, their joys fretted more and more with worry, thirst. It’s natural enough. Some carry in their brains small outposts on fire already, primed with alcohol. The landscape made of ash is open to them like a table setting. Some love now as we did once. Most, as always, may easily be prodded into war. ...

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