A place of great tranquility dreamed
Of great tranquility. It was a warm spring
In the soon-to-be-too-hot desert, green.
Children played in the irrigated grass.
None of this could ever come to an end.
Irony was a kind of fossil aquifer; wells drilled
Into it were needles of nostalgia. Sooner
Or later, so the thinking went, irreplaceable
Groundwater that had been banked under
The ice ages would run out and all would go.
No. None of this could ever come to an end.
The fading memory of it would glow forever
Brighter than any actual afternoon. Myths
Of the fantastic creatures that inhabited
This green, calm golden age would abound
And our aquifer would ever be replenished.
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