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Poem	Humans are flown, or fall; humans can't fly. We're down with the gravity-stemmers, rare, thick-boned, often basso. Most animals above the tides are airborne. Typically tuned keen, they throw the ground away with wire feet and swoop rings round it. Magpies, listening askance for their food in and under lawn, strut so hair-trigger they almost dangle on earth, out of the air. Nearly anything can make their tailcoats break into wings.
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