We are standing where
Kubla Khan begins,

Coleridge’s paradise poem
in granite stones along the

Land of Canaan footpath
with its walking promise,

putting our world to rights
as the election is coming –

rueing how a disenfranchised
will still vote for the privileged

who are liars: this incongruent
opium of imagining and hope –

and the dog bin next to us
reeks each time good

citizens open to deposit their
black bags of ad nauseam.