The field is wide, the night is damp: against the light
a waning moon discards before it leaves,
the chill stays in my skin. Winter
is too far to frighten me, but I always fear the cold
between your voice and mine. My hands
learn to deny your voice the way your voice
denies your body, searching for things
you say are of no use tonight. You take them
as they are offered; I take what I can of warmth
from the night. It’s not the salt that surprises,
but the bitter, not what eyes hide but the eyes
turned away. It’s not the night
that frightens, but the dawn. You turn
to a language without words, Mozart
or some other long-gone poise; I turn
to yet more words. My lips part, but then
forget. A moonless night months later
brings a clean noon where we meet, strangers
in the safety of day. Shaking your hand,
knowing I have never seen your face,
I wake in the space between memories,
startled that my voice doesn’t speak of need.
--Reginald Shepherd, 2005