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		<title>First Things RSS Feed - Michael McFee</title>
		<link>https://www.firstthings.com/author/michael-mcfee</link>
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		<copyright>Copyright 2025 First Things. All Rights Reserved.</copyright>
		<managingEditor>ft@firstthings.com (The Editors)</managingEditor>
		<webMaster>ft@firstthings.com (The Editors)</webMaster>
		<pubDate>Mon, 20 Jan 2025 16:54:03 -0500</pubDate>
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			<link>https://www.firstthings.com/rss/author/michael-mcfee</link>
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		<ttl>60</ttl>

		<item>
			<title>Pilgrimage</title>
			<guid>https://www.firstthings.com/article/2011/02/pilgrimage</guid>
			<link>https://www.firstthings.com/article/2011/02/pilgrimage</link>
			<pubDate>Tue, 01 Feb 2011 00:00:00 -0500</pubDate>
			
			<description><![CDATA[<p> Six days a week, this solo pilgrimage 
<br>
 across the wildnerness 
<br>
                     of weedy sloughs 
<br>
 and uphill root-snares and dead-lightning limbs 
<br>
 to the mailbox, 
<br>
                     celestial castle on the hill, 
<br>
 a shining silver roadside barrel vault 
<br>
 with a bloody flag 
<br>
                     recently lowered 
<br>
 and a drawbridge I let down while lifting out 
<br>
 my daily bread, 
<br>
                     the world&#146;s delivered words 
<br>
 I bear back to the house along a path 
<br>
 my feet have carved 
<br>
                      into the local earth 
<br>
 for decades now and know so well they could 
<br>
 tightrope its shallow gulley in the dark.  
</p> <p><em><a href="https://www.firstthings.com/article/2011/02/pilgrimage">Continue Reading </a> &raquo;</em></p>]]></description>
		</item>
		<item>
			<title>Compact</title>
			<guid>https://www.firstthings.com/article/2010/04/compact</guid>
			<link>https://www.firstthings.com/article/2010/04/compact</link>
			<pubDate>Thu, 01 Apr 2010 00:00:00 -0400</pubDate>
			
			<description><![CDATA[<p> The uplifted unfolded phone 
<br>
 casts its lunar digital glow 
<br>
 on the face of the young woman pausing 
<br>
 to scan its screen before snapping  
<br>
 the microelectronics shut 
<br>
 the way my mother would close her compact, 
<br>
  
<br>
 that slim round clamshell  
<br>
 whose hard black plastic shallow halves   
<br>
 opened to offer a handy mirror 
<br>
 hinged to pressed powder 
<br>
 she&#146;d deftly pad onto her tired turned cheeks 
<br>
 before hiding it in the purse with a click, 
<br>
  
<br>
 that vanity the size of a rotary&#146;s slow dial&rdquo; 
<br>
 a way to reach herself, a local call. 
</p> <p><em><a href="https://www.firstthings.com/article/2010/04/compact">Continue Reading </a> &raquo;</em></p>]]></description>
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