and the first thing she can't remember
is the difference between sleep on the floor
and sleep through the static.
and the last thing she remembers
is the thought of music
and how different it may sound upon the surface
of the moon.

cigarette smoke mixed with daydreams
while she walks across Abbey Road
into the center of the city
that she wishes knew her all too well,
but clock towers question
her timing too.
"the loveliest faces appear out of the
blue."
she often ponders the pendulum
and the consequence of her freedom
movement from place to place
person to person.
out of the blue.

at exactly meantime,
she walks alone
until she enters the telephone booth
that takes her into
a blue world:
unlike any other landscape
painted by Van Gogh himself.

It's the final Tuesday and the window opens on its own.
I'd stay for seven Tuesdays more, but alas
I'll let it be.