Eye Psalm

Sleep comes and opens
Wide spaces where the light
Lastly entered.
It’s the place where animals
In stray forms grace the darkness,
Where the accumulation of past loves
Blow about like a leaf.
If this is what death is like,
Even marginally so, then every nap
Is a spiritual practice.
Your eyes perform psalms in their
Slow roll into blackness.
Though everything fades there is still
A penumbra flitting in the shadows.
We pass through the exit wounds
Like train lights tunneling through stone.

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