If they, more petite than the mice whose flittings have pillaged their robes' sparkled trim,
stood tiptoe on the plumped felt tops of their thimble-sized footstools
to scrutinize the worn fabric of this room's blue distances,
would they locate the source of lightning bolts in our faces' wrinkled pleats
and construe the stars' dance from the tattered embroidery of our steps,
or find in our seamless unravelling years the tissue of apocalypse?
