Hopper’s “Summer Evening, 1947”
You were just another
crowd in a face.
I gave you a mile and all you took
was an inch.
I should have known
loose lips—kissing the universal
language like math.
It boils down
to the countenance
of numbers, one’s place.
Now, the formalities—crust
that will carry the bread.
Stars scratch the night sky
and mosquitoes still want
blood though the porch light
casts pallor.
White curtains haunt
the evening breeze
and your song
from my living room window
still plays even after
your car pulls away
from the curb.
When there’s nothing
I write
to the end
of the page.
Life
expands
by relation.
Up close
things
may appear
far away
like cells
under
a microscope
resemble
galaxies
and a lover’s
gaze
a black hole.
Barbara Campbell currently lives in Berkeley, CA. Her first poetry chapbook entitled, “The Invention of Life” was published in 2015 by Finishing Line Press and her poems have appeared in Tule Review, Poetry Now, Full of Crow, Breakwater Review and other literary journals.
