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62 Caravaggio’s Peter Firelight reveals the mire in a woman’s eyes, makes a soldier all shadow, all stance and hand, unfurls each furrow and taut line in Peter’s face: clench of eyes, rock liquefying in the corners. I’m burning my doctrines. I want to forgive him. The center of everything is the mouth, silent, open, done saying what cannot be unsaid—two words burnt on the voice box: Not me. ...

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