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Poetry is not the domain of the elite. Poetry traps Strunk and White in a steel barrel and plunges them over a roaring waterfall. Poetry nose dives, screaming above the drone of history, razor close until you smell its carnivore breath and glimpse your own silhouette reflection in its cataract eyes. Poetry is not search engine optimized. No algorithm can hold it, no logic model predict the lumbering swing of its axe against the glacier of apathy it climbs. Poetry leaps the icy chasm in its ...