THE FINGER PUPPETS IN THE ATTIC DOLLHOUSE
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?
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?