Did he think he thought a crooked little stab, the tease like ostrich feathers and brown lashes bleached white on the tips from sun, some small coincidence or perhaps fate.
Could he think he thought an apology, dried blood and vomit in a corner of a condemned house, rafters warped, walls fallen.
Should he think he thought against hope, a discarded memory that should have been different in the first place, a wide slow river to drown sorrow.
Does he think he thought a sweet revenge, lost in the cold shadows of night, silent soft wings but the instinct blunted by time, the dish was broken and swept into the fire long ago.
Would he think he thought a safety's sake, beware the beast that eats a false or bitter heart, the disease that rots the soul, we have nothing and nothing has us.
May he think he thought an untethered dream, lost in the pine barrens, a long hot dusty road barefoot.
Shall he think he thought a misconception, a conflict of refusal, the butterfly effect on a windshield.
Can he think he thought an affront, a forget it all, too many words between the lines, boiled down and finally reduced to idiocy.