From its place on the ceiling,
the cycloptic red eye winks and
in an instant I am made transparent.
Above and below the fractions of concentrated
light work through me, leaving me

exposed, tender as a cloud.
What more can I do than lie
here, still as furniture?
What more can I do than be
the white canvas for the nurse

to mark out her abstract black lines?
I breathe. I move here or there
as they need me to. I look up, I look
to the side. I am quiet when I need
to be. I laugh when I should. I do

what I'm told to do.
When I finally come down off
the smoky photography glass, I am
stiff and aching. I stumble a little.
Yet I smile and shake my head. And I

wait. What is it my body will do now
to make sense of this invisible intrusion?
It will do the only thing it can -- it will leave
a shadow of its self on the table behind me
for them to line me up against tomorrow.