A painting made of goldfish entering and exiting the canvas —
closely examined mouths blinking in tandem with the eye:
a scene resembling a set of knitting needles weaving a scarf.
It wasn’t quite a Harry Potter painting, nor the painting kept —
like a teenage diary left under the bed — by the Laura Palmer.
It wasn’t someone disappearing into Van Gogh’s Kurosawa crows.
“I hear the artist wanted to call this, ‘How A Painting is Remembered.’”
But how could you do that to art? Who would? Even if it was taken —
ferried from the walls to the streets — where would you dare hide it?
In masticating fire? At the bottom of the Seine? Even if you did that,
tossed a breadcrumb to the sole pigeon left to smoke a cigarette at night,
the call would be heard and The Day of The Simurgh would come.