The polished glass of pure perfection
cannot be seen from where I stand.
Like the moon,
or the eyes of a portrait,
it shifts as I move,
only--unlike them--
it hides.
Just a glimpse,
I desire.
Just a peek.
What radiance would I see?
What mysteries unfold?
But I see no reflection:
not of me,
nor the room,
nor anything I can fathom.
I fall back on my knowledge,
my belief,
my suspicion,
my fear.
Is it there?
(29 January 2008)
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