Out There

God is in His Heaven

Somewhere in the wild universe
of black holes gulping starlight spectacles
that glimmer light years away, You live,
I hear, attending full well
to the man who stops today
in his grey, banged up car
by what might be called a heaven
of junk in front of a four-family
tenement spewing brown, broken things –
	tables, lamps, consoles, stereos –
for pick-through delights
which are more microscopic than dust mites
in this whirl of worlds
winging off forever and ever 
to the end.

You are there, I am told,
and here, in trash bin offerings
of hope.
A mystery
beyond understanding.

The Blessed Virgin and a plastic duck
share a spot on a lawn of a ramshackle cottage
where muted pink paint contrasts blandly 
with black shutters. 

A woman emerges,
wearing shorts that hitch up 
at her inner thighs.
She hungers between worlds, 
hoping You see her faith, 
her testimony to the beauty
near and far and beyond her grasp,
unfathomable

while galaxies gallop
into the devouring infinite
beyond belief.