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63 Dear Suburb, What happened to the golden rule among all your shining objects— these daisies and grills, these bikes— even the dog turd dropped on my lawn, hidden by a few measly stalks? You’ve made me afraid to touch clovers and my wife’s hidden hooks and, most sadly, the woolen hats on my neighborhood’s children, which in winter are bright fruit. The next time you text me, I’ll be high on magnolia pollen and munching chips near the bluebird house, amazed I can thrive here so close to a city’s lost eminence, where you bring a golden stillness to everything 64 I touch, where I go whole years without suffering so much as a splinter. ...

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