For Edward Hopper

Alone on Hopper's street,
you blink into that hard-edged
light. You could hold the city
tenderly in your hands if asked.

It's a cherished aloneness,
Sunday morning after
Saturday night, when the soul is
loosely attached, easily idle.

This world of memories . . .
not mine — I covet those memories,
the light through those afternoon windows —
a geometry of silence,
a place without invitation,
but which might be discovered
if I do not intrude.

If you can gaze into that room
and do not ask who lived there
or where they went, you might
earn the right to sit in that slanted light
in silence without regret.