i believe the house by the railroad
is the loneliest view i have ever seen
and hopper must have been clotted
by tears of bereavement
in the shifting course
of the earth’s rotation
when there are no blues to see at night -
ceruleans and cobalts,
only the parched earth of
hotels and highways
where women sit slumped over the bed,
their stomachs protruding
to match the bow of their spines
in the absolute silence
of a fixed-point horizon,
abandoned and wondering
if in the distance lies
the thunderous white swell
of a visceral sea,
teeming with the transmigration
of sleepless bodies,
that weep under dilated umbrellas