November 7

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[Nighthawks — after Hopper]

nighthawks

Night renders them toys,
people shapes, a yellow
glow, how gratifying
to see lives in motion–

she stifles a yawn,
he is looking for
something, how
safely intimate—

there is always a space
between all I could say,
all that I could love,

plate glass, evening air,
a catalogue of neon,

bent tubes lending
a voice to the hours
that should not ever
have been reached,

erratic streetlamps,
a passing brakelight
ring hollow,

and whatever catches
in my voice, it’s only
part sadness.

A painter, not a painter’s
wife, I too know the
meaning of these long
matte expanses,

and there I am, fixed
under glass, a specimen,
and there he is, twice,

too close, too far,
the scant relief
of confession,

as love is not mechanical,
it can’t be broken down
into motions,

but it can be broken,
so don’t look
loneliness in the eye,

take it and show it,
say empty, empty,
whatever is expedient,

or want will find your
throat and fill it.

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