‘I don’t know many words, only blue,’

you say, and then everything is:

 

the carpet, and shadows on it; stains

after the glass: concrete &

 

trails of rubbed-out cigarette

– traces of nocturne –

 

Even the cat, never turquoise

(but at night – )

 

And so too the half-lifted mood &

us: what our faces might do,

 

our voices in this, uncut –