On Hopper’s ‘Morning Sun’


Woman in an urban womb,–

A martyr to the morning sun.


Imprisoned; prismatic. A shore

For the brutal brood of shades which teeth outdoors,–


A palate, pacifying to milky hues.


She’s hostage to the high-rise light,

With thoughts like an Atlantis, unexplored.


Outward-glaring, never to gaze behind,–

To swim in the sea-green mirage of her mind.








Preference of Proximity

My eyes are clouded with the dew

Of without-you.


In the chronic ache of unfilled space

Your matter’s much-missed;


An empty outline sore to trace

And sadder to kiss.


I try to plug the void with papers thick with plastic verse,–

Learning by the letter the sheer solace-lack of words.