M

 

At right-angles to our little

Waking world,

Dimensionless dancers,

Plying your dervish trade

In the shadowed

Lightless reaches of the

Miniscule.

The windows and doors here

So slight as to bar

The photon’s behemoth girth.

It is good to find

Your priests so pious,

Making their peace

At last with the Gravity Lords.

Bringing your realms to

A solid banker’s dozen

Bought you

Needed room to wiggle,

To say nothing of resolving your

Embarrassment of riches;

Exchanging your

Clumsy and vulgar pantheon

For a majestic,

And singular divinity.

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