I see you, sometimes, in a face,
in young men hurrying with tasks
or pushing through the crowd in pairs,
too vivid for me and too fast.
You dart across their irises
and through the muscles of their cheeks;
I hear you echo when they laugh,
ineptly hidden, out of reach.
How many of us have you passed
without a touch, without a word?
We’ll never find out what it’s like
to be these men, intense, secure—
but even they can’t see the homes
you build and vacate in their eyes:
we never know about ourselves
until you’ve left us way behind.