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.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.