I walked into that room once
white beyond despair, to interrogate
doctors. Are you afraid
of harming others
with your thoughts? Do splashes of paint
become horrific? Is the fabric
of what you see
as thin as a spy’s restraint? Do you stutter at
a thin, frail
sign
through which we see the world?

Removed.

Is the mind
unlocked

but not fully
in nature?

It’s always there, hidden by the brutal
information
of housing. What is
the true
secret that I keep you from?
I’ve told you
everything, and will continue
to. The secret

evolves endlessly, always
pushing out the light, because

all the pictures possible
are like reflections
of a shiny row
of large red and black ants
about to be extinguished
by the spray of cutting fear
alarms, the light of which, reddened
as it is, will burn through
any possible connection
by which we
remove ourselves
to each other. Each time

you give me the word, I absorb,
intentionally, fast beyond my knowledge,
the ignorance
of both of us. Everything
we sing to the ocean
bleeds us through
making the light
with which we see
with waves. Fly high

like the train that dies
with the host. You will arrive with them
to the desert, where
all of us evaporate
to the suns,

with a romantic view
of horses. Keep
the faith
as I am determined
to move through this light
slow and thoroughly
and with a single
wheel. It’s already done.
All of it.

All I have to do
is put my body
through it.

Roberto Harrison (© 2010)