Our fireplace is gas, a pane of glass
keeps me from reaching in and fiddling
with the fake flaming logs.
Piercing these logs are legs,
belonging to the coffee table,
between me and the fire.
The legs hold aloft another
sheet of glass, which slices me in half,
my reflection bifurcated
Each glass surface
reflects, refracts, and now
allows my eyes to see through –
if I sit just so.
God, too, is glass. Now I see
my face. Then I tilt my head and
I see grace, deeper than this surface,
which is, itself, sheer, evocative, apocalyptic.