God of Cosmos, we who are less than intestinal flora

            in a flea on the arm of a Superbowl fan who is

                        leaving the Big Game forever

salute you; we whom the merest

            breath of the idea of the largeness and smallness

                        and intricacy of things

                                    stuns, like rabbits in a headlight,

beseech you, in the name of all creatures drunk with

            the beauty of their nearest fraction,

to be: that in the minute, crawling, massive, whirling,

            spacious, flashing whole

                        which is beyond our reach forever

Something exults.