Small

He fits in impossibly tiny spaces.
He gives up pieces of his life,
diminishes as the world expands,
rolling, rolling behind.

The dime he puts in his pocket
spends itself down to a penny
then to a boll of lint. He donates it
to the tiny mill on the tiny stream

where they make socks for the poor.
He asks the miller’s daughter
if he can see her. “When you
can be seen,” she says. “Yes.”

“Yes,” he says to himself. “Yes!”
As the mill wheel turns and turns.