A thought may amble a bit ‘till it trips to a halt,
            ‘till it ticks up a halt and a half.
Slams to a door and whatever blue-black residue flirts with the hinges,
            flirts with the hinges:
A hiccup frame for the ghost words you never said
because you slammed its door.
Naked if not with another thought or two or more
            -- No, not naked:
Stark and ghastly in daunting and taunting tones of yellow;
            pale yellow; pale dawn.  A dawn too cold to be day.
But that blue-black residue that flirts with hinges and in the grass it does lay: but
            in your front lawn and
            in your church shoes and
            in the musk of your “I swear he’s a good guy” boyfriend’s neck.
You can’t pluck it up again, though someone else may,
            for it slammed to a door
For just the blue-black residue resides behind your eye
            or an I-owe-you