In the moment before you
  arrive, a hummingbird lands.

An old man whistles
  to no one.

The waitress drops a glass
  and I splinter quietly.

Outside, in the cruel morning,
  boys place pennies on the tracks.

In the sky,
  the sun rings quietly.

I cannot admit, even to myself,
  how quickly I have forgotten

the shape of you, of us,
  of the line where we meet.

And then you arrive
  with your feet wrapped in white

and I smell the smoke
  on your hands.