She punches nine. He presses ten.
In the frame of air between them, worlds writhe.
Neither will see the other again, nor notices
that the descent begins with the dimming of light,
which she comments upon with a sigh.
You sigh like my cat, he says. No,
perhaps I once did, but it's long been a lake ice thaw
quiet in its fracturing into darkwater fog.
Minnesota? Michigan, but not for years, not since I thought
I could do better than what I saw. Did you?

Remake what I saw?  A nod.
No. He turns to better look at her. You know,
the last conversation had like this, I was some dumbshit kid
fresh from vacation in Vietnam, on layover again in Hong Kong.
Never been. Well, what I mean is,

This is me. Hey. Forget America. Done.
Love?