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your hand beyond my hand, your phosphorous trail broken, lost. Visiting Day at School ‘She knows she can rub some of her brown skin off and use it for coloring.’ —A mother, to Robert Coles The tall, good, raw-boned, wrong teacher teaches wrong glory the children shuffle back from dumb as we do, too, having got the problem right: what you hold in your hand is your hand: You shall all have prizes, and the last, they say, first: to come home free, warm and bare, to laugh to see, Jack, see the years run around the tree to melt to feed you, Jane, see the line the days flew, quick bird, down around the thumb, almost straight, through all the king’s gold, back. 92 door in the mountain ...

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