Water must have flowed from this fountain at one time, but it’s not my concern.
Beyond what was once the tub of plenty: wreckage of love.
I am headed there because although in ruins, desire is rumored to trickle down those hollow columns.
I make a wide detour so I can approach the Ministry of Poverty from the front.
An announcement from one of the three towers: this is your mother’s love, your national department of finance, and the kiss from an unknown lover — all rolled into one. Scavenged tarps shield you from elemental misery — enough for you to make a fire, fill your stomach from a tin, recline your body for sleep.
Indeed love does live here.
The sun disappears. I walk back to the encircling compound. This is dystopia, presented by modern photographic media. But if you desire, if you care to look, you can find the tender prospect of love in any picture.
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