Lincoln sat on a Persian rug,
his legs folded,
almost lotus style.

The rug, it seemed to him,
soft,
and in the darkness,
the pattern seemed to him
like stars below him,
so that he felt like he were hovering
above the firmament.

Real Persian red,
with black,
and in the night, without light,
except candle flame,
like the black above.

They didn't have rugs like that,
back in New Salem,
or Illinois.
He sat there,
and sang a song to himself.
Of which we have no record.

But hovering above,
not really,
above the rug,
he felt good,
about his ideas, and who he was,
and where he was.

His thoughts,
unlike ours, were light,
agile, responsive as the axe
taking apart a good dry log, sinews force,
eye's good shine,
crinkle of a smile.

I am Lincoln.
I have been here forever. And will remain.
I've waited on people, in taverns,
and endure, equally, being President.
Many have died, because of me,
but here, on this rug,
I know why.
Persians have been making rugs,
just so I would feel
all that would be deprived of me,
the sense of floating,
stars and all the changing light and colors of
the firmament, residing below me.

His face shows him so.
It made him an easy target.
But coming up with things
was easy for him,
and his eyes were bright,
and he knew it, humbly,
and honestly, about himself.



His ghost now walks about.
He hovers very sadly,
dejectedly.
How could people be so?
How could people be so?