The problem is the infrastructure of dreaming has fallen on hard times. We want nothing so much as the promise of Yucca Mountain, a sweating red heart beating deep underground. For this, we stockpile dynamite, jackhammers. We buy new hardhats for the ribbon cutting. We show up on the appointed morning, but there are no photographers and no orange coolers of ice water; we’ve been sold a scale model, just a rectangular plot of packed earth. The sun is a steady acetylene torch. It’s clear we each must dig and so roll the sleeves of our dress shirts in unison past our elbows. Though we’re disappointed, it feels good to swing a pickaxe, harpoon the ground with a shovel. In the dullness of the work, we can almost imagine the famed hanging gardens saturated with flowers.