[after Ruth Stone]
a farmer won’t chase strangers
running through his fields,
there will be no empty stroller
at the riverbank. Only locusts
will sew chaos and comfort will drop
from trees like crisp apples.
Every boat will have a compass,
every swimmer strong arms,
only newts will bob in reeds.
There will be no shoe floating
downstream. Falling stars will be
the only fear and Bienvenido will
be spoken with gusto. In the next galaxy
the sun won’t need to slink home at dusk,
the future will not be lost in water.
