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At takeoff, I'm reading frank: sonnets by diane seuss, which, at halfway, I already know has become a mainstay of my personal canon. The man next to me peers over and asks, is that a book of poems? It's nice to see a young person reading these days. He is large, jovial, white American, around the age of my parents, with blurry tattoos on his sun-drenched arms. I nod politely and point to the…