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“all life is gesture”
—Edward Hopper
Across Clinton Street, an open window
above Peabody’s bar. A woman
reclines on rippling blue sheets,
her face obscured by lamplight
beside a bed. She reads
some hardbound book—balanced
on her chest, wears a red sweater.
She is barefoot.
The man watching
leans on a lamppost, lights a cigarette,
recalls autumn beach heather,
moonlight over Cape Ann.
He is waiting for her
to close the window,
pull down a shade. She will
never finish that book.
He will never sleep.