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When Morning Comes   like the old quail in spring;   When morning comes and shakes all the dew drops from his  cloak   to greet me, and undoes his heavy coat buttons;
To sneeze, or not to sneeze-that is the question:   Whether it’s better for my nasal cavity to suffer   The annoyance of inconsiderate reflexes,  
It’s What She’s Not   I A yellow rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary,
I write America, holding back the pain from her, the hurt from him, and the anger from themI’m a silently outspoken girl trying to prove that writing will get me farI can and will
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