Cockaigne

find me a place just wide enough for rocks find me a land of fire but no flag

a blockhead land in which a beggar must have the greatest hands

a world in which money is counterfeit nonsense like a king’s wind discernable to the eye

where God will grow in whatever body poor lord of silence

but I overcome with seasickness shut my eyes to the moon and his green and horrible horses

hold me not knowing who as if I had been awake