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The pilgrims come every day, all of them the same: ducking underneath the garage door before it’s settled into its cradle up. . .
This land I watch over / is a place with old stories / and plant medicine. / It is earth a mountain lion walks . . .
Every night I dream of fathers, their bodies ferried away
into the far corner between sleep and waking.
On Fitzgerald’s novel and eternal American myths.
Louis Vuitton’s clumsy attempt to make good.
On New York’s efforts to quantify and exploit the “eco” dollars out of every living cedar, oak, ash, and pine.