The sun was sinking.
In an upstairs window
A tailor's dummy underwent transfiguration.
A crimson tape-measure crossed the bust
As an order, such as queens wear,
And her diamonds were scintillating dust.
Paper-covered books curled,
A needle slid towards the scissors on the sill,
Shadows unfurled
Like rolls of dark crêpe across the counter.
For so things happen when the tailor turns the key
And goes away, and no one's there to see.
None can witness when a change is wrought
Till afterwards. Few have heard
The last tick before the clock stops short
Or seen the crack appear upon the ceiling.
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