There were mice， and even

    Smaller creatures holed up in the rafters.

    One would raise its thumb， or frown，

    And suddenly the clouds would part， and the whole

    Fantastic contraption come tumbling down.

    And the arcade of forgotten things

    Closed in the winter， and the roller coaster

    Stood empty as the visitors sped away

    Down a highway that passed by an old warehouse

    Full of boxes of spools and spoons.

    I wonder if these small mythologies，

    Whose only excuse for existing is to maintain us

    In our miniscule way of life，

    Might possibly be true？ And even if they were，

    Would it be right？ Go find the moon

    And seal it in the envelope of night.

    The stars are like a distant dust

    And what the giants left lies hidden in full view.

    Brush your hair. Wipe the blood from your shoes.

    Sit back and watch the firedance begin.

    ——So the rain falls in place，

    The playground by the school is overrun with weeds

    And we live our stories， filling up our lives

    With souvenirs of the abandoned

    Factory we have lingered in too long.