On rocks at the 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,
green, with the sharp edge of a New England Brahmin.
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,
the sun traces its arc across my palm,
I am another outlier at the edge of it all.