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Poetry is the impoverished brother-in-law in our American literature family; sometimes amusing, often annoying, drinks too much at Thanksgiving, says the inappropriate thing at odd moments, and other times says exactly what we want to say, yet can't. He often boasts and blusters about some grand ambition or scheme, but none of us hold out much hope for him. We know he loves our sister intensely, although we don't entirely trust him, but he's family, so we tolerate him, even encourage him. Plus there was that one time he saved our lives.
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