In Immemorial Elms [Dialogue]

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.