It Has Found You

by Brett Rutherford


     after a painting by Magritte


What you thought
the sky of freedom
was but the painted back
of your mirror. No wonder
you saw yourself in the universe,

no wonder you kept
the blackout curtains open
as the world watched
you dress and undress.
The sun never set
on your mindful audience.

Your guilts are white-washed:
those seven broken hearts
entombed in acute pyramids
issue no cries, nor do
they bleed onto your carpet.

Your empire is fallen now.
The game is up, presaged
by the breaking of the glass
of your false diorama.

Your former sky
is a gray wall – tomb
or prison, madhouse or void? —
whatever your actual
place of residence, the eye
on the worm-end of an optic nerve
is crawling toward you. Blinkless
and unforgiving, it snakes
inexorably toward you. Liar,
thief, and love-absconder,
it has found you!