I wrote to you, asking -
it was a trite enquiry, like
192 for the code of a stranger -
if you were the click
on my answer-phone.

It was just that
silent scuff
of thought, the receiver
clucking on the tape:
something faintly impatient - the way
there was an intake
dead as breath, not quite -

not quite anonymous.
I'd hoped it was you,
checking my absence.

A while and a half:
later, you wrote
to scotch the rumour
muling its way through my head.
I'm not (you called)
the quick click
on your answer-phone.

I thought about it,
testing the vague severity
of your denial. I tasted
a selfish
premise, and found myself -

found myself wanting.
You hadn't rung, but I had
called you up.

From Love Poems