Carting the bricks up to the substandard well construction
the child staggers, the man watches, the woman stares.
Is it your well? I want to ask the child.
No, she replies. Yours.
I look down at my iPhone.
She looks back.
Who are you?
The yogurt man laughs. Another fortune squandered.
An island. A brick. A world at the bottom of a well.
Dreams tempt us into an alternate reality but variously reveal our own reality in the process. Our fears, our desires, our passions form a cryptic landscape that hold us in thrall until we snap out of the dream or plan our escape.
Here, perhaps, “the yogurt man” is akin to the “emperor of ice cream” in the Wallace Stevens poem.