I recognise that open door
between the night-time
and the endless road
that small white window
of the phone   and the driver’s
quiet mutterings all journey

who is it speaking to them
softly   all through the shift
companion to the cat’s eyes
the unseen bend of the road
that propensity I know
that threshold to another life

sometimes when I’m alone
tired   blood gone heavy
I let them in   hold up
each one to the light
all face   like the moon
it isn’t love   just some

refraction of the possible
I’ll never meet them  
but like hidden frequencies
their voice is always there
when my body starts to hum
the music of being wanted

Andrew McMillan

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