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There’s a weed whose name I’ve meant all summer

to find out: in the heat of the day, dangling pods hardly

worth the noticing; in the night, blue flowers . . . It’s as if

a side of me that he’d forgotten had forced into the light,

briefly, a side of him that I’d never seen before, and now

I’ve seen it. It is hard to see anyone who has become

like your own body to you. And now I can’t forget.

Just the Wind for a Sound, Softly

Carl Phillips

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