Blank canvas, no paint.
Once we enter,
That canvas is never clean; never white,
Every day changes its surface,
Fine strokes, aggressive daubs,
Emptied buckets in rage, in lust,
An uncertain finish.
Only in parting, can the frame be applied
Step back and see what they were really made of,
As the paint dries one last time,
No acrylic, watercolours, pencil or ink,
Is it dark? Light? Or mixed?
We decide in part, the rest is hurled at us,
On a canvas never square, nor symmetrical,
No one knows quite how many sides,
In the gallery that never opens.