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The Flummery of Intent



And now into my enclosed garden,
walls of hills joined with tiers of brick,
undemocratic, unsocratic,
with flowers, bees, and shademaking trees.

World, stay away from my gate.
It's locked.  Too late.

The sun, the breeze,
and I nap or sleep.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.