For Edward Hopper Alone on Hopper's street, you blink into that hard-edged light. You could hold the city tenderly in your hands if asked. It's a cherished aloneness, Sunday morning after Saturday night, when the soul is loosely attached, easily idle. This world of memories . . . not mine — I covet those memories, the light through those afternoon windows — a geometry of silence, a place without invitation, but which might be discovered if I do not intrude. If you can gaze into that room and do not ask who lived there or where they went, you might earn the right to sit in that slanted light in silence without regret.