miniatures

we are still
like an earthquake
a long history of trembling
is it rage. is it rage. is it not
our time, not ever our time
the brushes of our fingers, again
how tactile is failure, life. like.
one dollhouse, miniatures fits in
someone else’s fingers—how close
we are to matter. again, weighing in
on this scale, built precisely for us—
precisely to ignore us.