NIGHTHAWKS
(on looking at Edward Hopper’s painting, Nighthawks)
Nightfall is in for the evening,
resting on everything with its heavy shadows,
tired now from holding them for so long
but for the occasional thumb print behind you here,
tired now from lifting every heavy wave
upon its back there.
And leaning into tall buildings has never once been easy.
It’s certain no one here would see it differently.
For now, darkness hangs an arm across our shoulders.
We each bow a little beneath its weight.
We are that much closer to our cups because of it,
that much closer to the ground beneath us.
We will meet up again then.
There.
For now, we sit and drink, leaning back a little sometimes
to uncrease the curl in the slopes of our spines
or lean our faces in to the glow of electric light,
the way we might hold our hands before a fire,
the way we might break the water’s surface
one last time
before slipping down,
far beneath the waves
with the shadow of night
beneath our heels even then.
