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67 My Poem Making Its Way in the World Well, it’s out there; it must be going somewhere; it marches up and knocks on someone’s door. But knock’s the problem. It’s out there like an exhalation; it’s out there like a sound forgotten three days ago. You were passing from room to room to room and heard something! Not the sound of shields on the ancient plain; not the prophet’s burly dark command. Listen again. Recall it. Keep it on hand. ...

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