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.