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