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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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.