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Poem	Day after day up there beating my wings with all the softness truth requires I feel them shrug whenever I pause: they class my voice among tentative things, And they credit fact, force, battering. I dance my way toward the family of knowing, embracing stray error as a long-lost boy and bringing him home with my fluttering. Every quick feather asserts a just claim; it bites like a saw into white pine. I communicate right; but explain to the dean-- well, Right has a long and intricate name. And the saying of it is a lonely thing.
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