On the Desiccation of the Human Dreamscape

When does a vacuum form
where there once sat a bright-eyed leafy girl
whittling away at a statue to Aristotle?

Perhaps after the president-elect finishes his shift at Walmart,
or when the starving artist sculpts a brilliant orange swoosh on the side of a factory
in Taiwan, outside the company infirmary where little hands are unstapled and stitched,

or when a toy truck turns into an AK-47
and a playground is a minefield,

or when crayons become bombs become
investment portfolios in hands that once reached for astronauts, cowgirls, and firefighters.

Yet, there is a little rivulet,
shimmering and roiling with reflections
of Matisse and O’Keeffe,

a field where each blade of grass
contains a tiny city, with spires
of dust and arenas of pollen;

where flower dancers sway over mass graves
and fireflies cover the ashes with magic.

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