She had come to him, to his dorm room, and was standing at the door, uninvited.  She had poems to show him.  These are my scrolls, she said, and handed him a wad of rolled-up yellow-lined mini-pad paper.  He sensed they may share a class; he tried to think up her name.  You can keep them, she said.  Are you all right, he asked.  I’m here, I’m good, she said.  He recalled in detail quite often over the years how she had then opened up her face for him to see as far into her as he wished, and that he had looked down instead at the scroll in his hand.  The poems were a hodgepodge of lines and stanzas deeply felt, lances hurled into oneself, and though he didn’t see her when he had then looked back up, and had never heard from her again, the moment long stayed with him as to how daily life is so full of hellos-&-goodbyes that take no time at all — moments, some of them grave, begun, lived, and ended inside of glances, or, sometimes, after only a few seconds more.