Tuesday, January 29, 2008

The Polished Glass of Pure Perfection

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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