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Glory Be (I)

To Him who permits the storm-torn hickory to cross upon itself, savage as thrown ink lines, Glory be.

To Him who grants the turkey vulture a bare red face, so that she might reach between ribs of the dead and pick meat off their bones;

Who beholds the rusted eye of Jupiter, blasting? (Like a woman in her fury? I cannot tell.) Even so, glory be.

Nor can I tell if He ordains or simply allows hail to bruise the soft bodies of tree frogs;

or why he does not stop the wild dog from laughing (by my judgment) overloud.

Glory be to Him who shaped the teeth of the wolf in their sockets ‘ere any shepherd shaped his staff;

To Him who planted a fruit-bearing tree then spoke, “You shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.” Glory be.

To Him Who has been from the beginning other, Who cannot be etherized, elucidated, abridged;

Who grants to life gravity and resistance, Who is untamed by those who would harness Him, Who spins the moon round, round and round again, from dissonance to resolve until she flushes white and clean, shining like Moses fresh down from the mountain; Glory be.


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