Poems have hidden agendas
are double agents.
Out of sight, underfoot,
a worm works a garden rich.
Overhead, fantasies fly;
nature's witches on forbidden sticks.
The simple motion of shifting weight
one foot to the next,
the mind adroitly simulates.
The foreshortening of day, the elongation of night;
a thought misplaced turns up some other place...
Divining rod, Matilda's tricky boomerang
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