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Poem	the people are very small and shrink, dwarves on the way to netsuke hell bound for a flea circus in full retreat toward sub-atomic particles-- difficult to keep in focus, the figures at that end are nearly indistinguishable, generals at the heads of minute armies differing little from fishwives, emperors the same as eskimos huddled under improvisations of snow-- eskimos, though, now have the advantage, for it seems to be freezing there, a climate which might explain the population's outr? dress, their period costumes of felt and silk and eiderdown, their fur concoctions stuffed with straw held in place with flexible strips of bark, and all to no avail, the midgets forever stamping their match-stick feet, blowing on the numb flagella of their fingers-- but wait, bring a light, clean the lens.... can it be those shivering arms are waving, are trying to attract attention, hailing you? seen from the other end of the telescope, your eye must appear enormous, must fill the sky like a sun, and as you occupy their tiny heads naturally they wish to communicate, to tell you of their diminishing perspective-- yes, look again, their hands are cupped around the pinholes of their mouths, their faces are swollen, red with effort; why, they're screaming fit to burst, though what they say is anybody's guess, it is next to impossible to hear them, and most of them speak languages for which no Rosetta stone can be found-- but listen harder, use your imagination.... the people at the other end of the telescope, are they trying to tell you their names? yes, surely that must be it, their names and those of those they love, and possibly something else, some of them.... listen.... the largest are struggling to explain what befell them, how it happened that they woke one morning as if adrift, their moorings cut in the night, and were swept out over the horizon, borne on an ebbing tide and soon to be discernible only as distance, collapsed into mirage, made to become legendary creatures now off every map.
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