Your eyes are a brocade of finches,
feathered bronze and gold-flecked
shards of stained glass, afloat
in pails of morning’s milk.
Your pupils are black as onyx,
as distant stars moments beyond collapse.
I enter through them to find,
in a barn lit through rafters,
the Son of Man
with mud dripping from his hands.
Oh, my God
—he looks like you.