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Poets Household


The stout poet tiptoes
On the lawn.
Surprisingly limber In his thick sweater Like a middle-age burglar.
Is the young robin injured? 2 She bends to feed the geese Revealing the neck’s white curve Below her curled hair.
Her husband seems not to watch, But she shimmers in his poem.
3 A hush is on the house, The only noise, a fern, Rustling in a vase.
On the porch, the fierce poet Is chanting words to himself.

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