In Immemorial Elms

Wouldn't it be funny

If the stars in their black beyond were hung from the ceiling by fishing line

Just painted white cardboard, hollow - but shine

Regardless of the opinions of the earth

And mine are absent regardless.

If you want to hide yourself among them, you may

You may find your way across the creaking floorboards

Of the black beyond, to the vast array

And sit yourself among the countless separatist lords

And in this I could take comfort.

But perhaps I am content

In finding myself in the multitude of their dim vassals

Some natural spirit lacking velvet, bells, and tassels

Wrapped gently by the veiling morning mist

In the fields long below.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree

Where Alph, the sacred river ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea