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82 Foreword The infant stands, as if rising In court to make a motion. We hurry to hooray, surprising Him, this knish, our Martian In green pajamas, this Rubens Handful. Handsome in training, His face’s scheduled sense Of style pulls into the station. What, in clapping, do we wish For him, or us? At a charity ride Last June, I was at the finish Line, my helmet still on, the side Of the road lined with early Arrivers: we ushered in the late Ones like heroes. —He nearly Takes his first step. It can wait, I think. It’s enough, his handOver -fist reliance on the table Leg, the blazing ascent From the cold floor to dabble In his future, which he wears Lightly, like the world after Rome. Success closes the course It rides in on. Buoyed by the sea foam 83 Of our approval, he chins up, Poses, grins—then falls, Dashed against his own hope. Only slightly daunted, he crawls Away, stretching the moment Behind him like his nation’s Flag, gift wrapping the present In memory and patience. ...

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