On rocks at the edge
a lighthouse stands out in refraction and reflection,
an outlier beaming sixteen miles over serried waves.

Red shingles take in the sun’s warmth.
Buildings are drawn in cubes and light,
with the sharp edge of a New England Brahmin.

The earth is slipping East.
For a while I stand in the open.
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,
another outlier at the edge of it all.

Painting by Edward Hopper, Lighthouse and Buildings, Portland Head, 1927