Gloria Mundi
On this otherwise undistinguished evening,
the man at the garage collects money
in a three-by-three booth with a rickety heater,
his accented 'thank you'
passed across gloved hands.
A baby paws the velour of a pup's ear.
They sniff and squirm,
an uncoordinated tangle,
hatchlings.
Somewhere off the Kona coast,
porpoises are racing for the hell of it.
Who knows? They could all be God.
Something mightily bare-skinned and brilliant,
as like to us as The David to the marble
that waited for so long,
hovers in the world.
Pluck another apple, Eve,
and finish it.
We are all promises
watching to see
how we will keep ourselves.
by Holly L. Thomas
© 2007