In the painting
of a painting,
there’s little
to be said
of sadness,
as if opening up
within itself
is a way of
misremembering
personal history.
I remember
the museum
where the painting
was shown,
its walls so full
their colors
were obscured
from the eye.
When the soldiers
arrived, it
was like any
other installation:
strange in its
existence, changing
the way a frame
has its own life
free from its art,
the walls divided
as if being tore down.