Thomas
Little thing, you are new on earth
Have stilled the night and made us holy
We have become silent, shuffling satellites
In thrall to the gravity of wonder
You are a thousand storms
And the calm between them
We sing to the storm
Our singing a laying of traps
Our spoils, the soft pulsating
Arcs of nostril, the barely perceptible throb
Of eyeball under lid
An aurora borealis of eyelash and pupil
The slow grab and open of empty hands
Shining like sealskin
Awake, asleep, you command us
We rush to fulfil each of your
Comical decrees. You are eggshell and god
Everything is new to you, and for a moment
To us, through you
We forget how the world tastes