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Poem	1 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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