KIM STAFFORD
The design committee for making the world
had stalled with the problem of drought.
“We have the sea over here, the desert
over there—how many roads do we need,
how many trucks, how many miles of pipe?”
At the back of the great hall stood the daughter
of the doorman, who had brought him supper.
She pulled him down to whisper in his ear
her dream of the mystery of mist. “My child,”
he whispered, “that makes no sense at all.”
