The image is stamped over and over in your mind,
the press never runs out of ink, drawing from a well that
refuses to appear when you actively call it.
The blueprints are solid, you can touch them
until it’s time to build.
Then they slip away, silently on the breeze
as the foundations are being laid.
You chase them, following every turn
whether it leads to rivers or hills, the top
of a rainbow or the boiling pot at the bottom,
only to find they’ve expanded somewhat
and become richer.