They came in the night with chains
And padlocks and rope,
Anything to bound the drawers
In the hope of keeping the words within.
A matter of protection,
The air is an aging thief –
Look what it does to wine!
Dusty bottles of envious vintage
Need to be emptied
Within a minute or two, alas.
Light is a sickly touch
Putrefies paper to a crispy scab.
Keep them closed
These drawers of Heed,
For future generations.
Last night the guard whose duty it was
Changed as if
The identifying fragments of self
Banished to a boat on a crimson sea
Retelling what he can remember
To the birds.