11 of 140

by Linda Armstrong

I unrolled the resistant cloth,
cut, pulled, stretched it tight,
then, stapled its edges,
sealed, dried, sanded it smooth
and then, sealed it again.

Now, it sits, insolent,
on the easel confronting me,
vibrant with a terrifying
potential as pale as death.

I lift a brush,
pregant with red paint
and make a heartless stroke-
a primary error as rash as Eve's
following the reckless,
undeniable direction
of every creation.

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Poetry: Blank canvas

by Linda Armstrong

Poetry: Blank canvas

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