Sarah

Deep set eyes this June, her work sets her free, even if she loves too soon, what separates wooden nails, stretched canvas lets her see, painting is her game, working by the raging moon, she smells the mound of Liberty, lifts her when she swoons. can still feel the pain, in yellow nights of dreams, even if she looks the same, a brace of scurried goons, spill the bottle's seams, men like portraits tuned, gone from that terrain, doubtful of their schemes, pencils in another frame, splits another masterpiece.