Frederic Foote

Visitation

How do you know who touched you last night—
was there light in the icy room?
Did you reach for my shape at the moment you cried out?
No, only to stifle your moan.

The truth, shown only when passion spreads
her wings wide with designs,
is another lover sharing our bed
who craves you as much as I.

By day, in the sober hours, her tethered limbs
scarcely bother the air—
at sweetness’ peak, only then she reveals herself,
when you’re too blind to beware.