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Poem	There are no postage stamps that send letters back to England three centuries ago, no postage stamps that make letters travel back until the grave hasn't been dug yet, and John Donne stands looking out the window, it is just beginning to rain this April morning, and the birds are falling into the trees like chess pieces into an unplayed game, and John Donne sees the postman coming up the street, the postman walks very carefully because his cane is made of glass.
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