Rowe

A winter of religious scenes, she dabs at another frame, stands without relief, regards the thing she's honed, out from that other game, doubts she's ever alone, in yellow nights of dreams, even when she looks away, it's not what it seems, in many ways she's gone, lost without a name, the work is not her own, but canvas lets her see, painting's like a nail, a matchstick in the sea, the pull of other thrones, never lets her reign, her hand is a stone, but work is her Me, she wakes and eyes the day, another strike at liberty, there's no better way.