You know her the way you know all women
in Hopper’s paintings. You rendezvous
in the territory of imagination: shifting landscape
of streets and oceans, walks and whale watches:
agreeing to meet on that side route, this ride out.
You can’t capture her face, just a suggestion
of shoulder, its shy bra-strap smile. You don’t
catch up with her, no need to follow after;
good enough to spy her in the café mirror or
here at ship’s railing. Hat always on her lovely head,
gaze focused off into the distance. For she too
has her version of this: this aching for what lies
just outside the realm of the camera’s gaze.
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