On the weathered gray shingles of a neighboring shed
the sunlight reveals the image of a man crouched down,
his head twisted to three-fourths profile,
one eye open and vacant,
shingles forming a jagged grin
where a mouth should be.
He’s creeping, paused, turned to look—
sunlight striping his cheek, the side of his nose,
shadow falling like hair across an invisible ear
and aged shingles giving the appearance
that the skin above his eye has rotted away.
When the sun shifts he’ll be gone.
Even as I watch, the image flickers,
no longer as sharp as it was moments ago when
I opened a new document to capture him.
It’s only the knowledge of where his eye should be
that allows me to find him and wonder,
will he be there again tomorrow
when the sun is in the same position?
How did he come to be trapped in the roof?
Does he see me through the window and wonder
how I have become trapped within glass?