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Poetry

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.


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