It was hardly a high-tech operation， stealing The Scream.
That we know for certain， and what was left behind——
a store-bought ladder， a broken window，
and fifty-one seconds of videotape， abstract as an overture.
And the rest？ We don't know. But we can envision
moonlight coming in through the broken window，
casting a bright shape over everything——the paintings，
the floor tiles， the velvet ropes： a single， sharp-edged pattern；
the figure's fixed hysteria rendered suddenly ironic
by the fact of something happening； houses
clapping a thousand shingle hands to shocked cheeks
along the road from Oslo to Asgardstrand；
the guards rushing in——too late！——greeted only
by the gap-toothed smirk of the museum walls；
and dangling from the picture wire like a baited hook，
a postcard： "Thanks for the poor security."
The policemen， lost as tourists， stand whispering
in the galleries： ". . .but what does it all mean？"
Someone has the answers， someone who， grasping the frame，
saw his sun-red face reflected in that familiar boiling sky.