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 arcade1 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 warehouse2
Full of boxes of spools3 and spoons.
I wonder if these small mythologies4，
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.
