A Past Occasion

Your silence was a past occasion
your posture, arm upon breast,
a past night and day
in another's company.

But why your smile,
so different, was the same,
why your glance
showed me a forgotten moment,
why your hand — half-raised —
which held a glass
reflecting a patch of light
held my glance
long after you had drunk
and placed it down
I couldn't say.

And I couldn't say
why I was awake
when birds were calling
just before light
in the warming morning
with a fear that what I remembered
was stronger than me.