There are universes so small
there might be one in your pocket
roiling among loose change
I visited one once or twice.
Maybe forty feet in volume
and unknowable from outside
if there was an outside.
But in that bubble of otherplace
a single smooth wall lined with ears
to witness the bang of creation
stoking hearts with the furnaces of stars
and eyes wide as galaxies
faced the center
where the Man in the Mouse-Skin Jerkin
weaved unyielding Real to fill that tiny void
that tapestry hemmed with thread spun
from two pipes at his lips.
He filled the sphere with
and wicked heroes
and maidens wise in sorrow
and chests that issued moons
to fill numberless worlds.
Its boundary passes no matter
only memory may transit the horizon
of that singular event
and the Mage who brought that universe about
has left this one now
leaving it poorer in future
and wealthy in dream.