I see a child
whose life
is dying of thirst.
I see a child
chasing droplets of water
in a storm of dust
and black flies.
I see brown bones
dangling haphazardly.
I see a marionette
at the end of
invisible wires
an impossible tangle.
Someone said,
“…magic persists without us…”*
Is there magic in this world?
Magic cyclones?
An Emerald City?
I see a wicked land.
I see desolate people
watering poppies in spring.
*Charles Bukowski, In Other Words