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4 3 R T H E S T R O N G B Y T H E I R S T I L L N E S S C A R L P H I L L I P S Most mornings here, mist is the first thing to go – first the mist, then the fog, though hardly anyone seems to know the di√erence, or even care, the way for some a dead buck is a dead buck: the road, the body, a little light, the usual dark, light’s unshakeable escort . . . You can love a man more than he’ll ever love back or be able to, you can confuse your understanding of that with a thing like acceptance or, worse, all you’ve ever deserved. I’ve driven hard into the gorgeousness of spring before; it fell hard behind me: the turning away, I mean, the finding of clothes, the maneuvering awkwardly back into them . . . why not drive forever? Respect or shame, it’s pretty much your own choice, is how it once got explained to me. I’ve already said – I’m not sorry. Magnolia. Wild pear. So what if one wish begets a next one, only to be conquered by it, if the blooms break open nevertheless like hope? ...

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