Edward Hopper, Road in Maine.

On rocks at the veritable edge,
lighthouses standout in refraction and reflection.
Outliers beaming sixteen miles over serried waves.

The earth is slipping east. The sun begins its search
for the dark line of the western horizon.
Lighthouse beams are lifelines in a casting sky.

Red and green shingles release the night’s cool in white mist.
Buildings are drawn in cubes and light,
like Hopper, though less green, without the feeling he evinced.

For a while I stand in the open.
The dirt road, the line of mailboxes, may be endless.
I do not feel the ground turning beneath my feet.

I reach into the air, stretch out my hand
watch the sun trace its arc across my palm,
another outlier at the veritable edge of it all.