I dream, now and then,
Though almost never in bed,
Imagining windmills
As docks for dirigibles
That only charge a few coins--
Or even none, on Sundays--
For a flight to a land
Only hours from our own
Where the battle ended long ago
(Not even a battle: little more
Than children in the video-arcade)
And everyone laid down their struggles beside
Cardboard swords and pico-caliber pop guns
Because they knew the days too fair to mark
Any day that comes or goes as
Holier than any other
In this land where no one goes hungry,
Everything fulfilled--
Not least the dreams
That sowed the seeds of this world
Removed at an inconceivable proximity to our own.
