On Seeing Edward Hopper

There is the starkness of light
and line, the broad plain beauty
of an empty office, or house near
an ocean, a window, or the curvature
of a woman sexless in her nude
pose, not lingering in the yellow
gloam, but more in between breaths,
neither taking one or exhaling.
Just still as if the camera is about
to click. And that repeating face,
his wife, his wife again in almost
every piece. There is the cloud
of control over much of what we
see. The paintings march towards
you, but hardly let you in, they gently
stun you with question, with simplicity
and beauty, and a strange desire
to keep looking for an answer.