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71 Declaration Every poem is a love poem, she declares. I smile, say, “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” She says, How I wonder where you are. I say, “The Road Not Taken.” She says, That has made all the difference. I say, “The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.” She says, The British are coming. The British are coming. Seriously, I say, he put everything he had on a horse that night, risked his life for his country. The country of love, she says, his wife waiting for him in the silvery window, her face like pewter, the whites of her eyes, the forge of her longing, her smithy heart, her body, her breathing, warm in his arms, love that had him racing to reach her again, to hold her so tightly under the moonlight, gleaming, in his blackened and finely burnished hands, like a poem, don’t you think? ...

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