Read Poem: Countenance, by Daniel Sheldrake

We’re in a pub.

The rain has stopped, or at least settled now into a fine drizzle.
You’re on the phone to a relative, your sister –

she wants to know if we’ve had sex.
I watch as this exchange takes place, remembering your face last night
in the dark

eyes like droplets of space, open, plump lips
the full length of tooth exposed.

A face only known between lovers.