The girl lies on the
Gray Shingles
Oblivious to passerby
Left to linger
In
Her Own Universe,
A still lake of joy
A world
That doesn’t know the meaning of
“Think it over.”

“Think it over.”
Ha
She left those words
And all the loftiness with which they dripped
On the first floor
Now,
She’s on the Gray Shingles.

Ah,
Is there any greater joy
Than the waving off of time?
Let the sun bathe her in gilt
Let it caress her skin
With its toasty stroke
Let her naked feet
Wiggle
And bask
And soak
In its balmy wash

As evening arrives
Let the night
Gather around her
Let her ignore the chills
And imposing shadows
Let her close her eyes
And drift away

And let her avoid, for now,
Blinking awake
Not yet
Not now,
Not ever?
Not here.

What use does she have
For identity
Or place
She lets the Gray Shingles
Decide its plans for fate.