Twilight falls where church reflected on your eyes:

ancient light, pure beginnings; first opened to fade
as they closed their heart to what follows, when their eyes
revealed encircling light that is neither dark nor light;
souls covering you with seeds from a forest encroaching
the fallen city.

They've planted before, when you first closed your eyes,
where spirit never dies. Their eyes close, dimmed each time
they sew their light, as your eyelids are stars remembered,
guides to ancient paths where no one runs. They see
fertile earth and a sparkling river.

Twilight falls on the river until both disappear
in small, quiet waves soaking the damp sand;
bright earth from dust speaking to ancient shores
washed of thought. Once before, they opened
their eyes and covered you with stars.

Once they covered you with stars you became a bearer,
as they are bearers of light years ago. Only clay
and blood are left behind now—what a hard, bare river
runs to when storms fall back into the black river.

Your eyes open to a church of sand and sea,
the dimming light of time and oceans you hide
in a church of days washing you with gray
and blue midnight falling into more days of the same
pampered loam; seeds grown on red and green horizons.

Waves of twilight roll over brief winds rushing home
before the dry light disappears into another complaint,
where starlight sits around a table on stiff, creaking chairs,
feeding you more seeds for each meal, before
the city opens its eyes again.