I haven’t touched the living
room, and holding your hand
is a walk on a stopped
escalator.  Tomorrow the judges
will be benchless, along
with each other and goblets
full of vinegar.  The winter forgot
about snow—it must be dreaming
of beaches.  You play Hawthorne
and mark my cardigan “P”
for pedestrian, pathos, pretender...
Did I steam up the bathroom
again?  Did I follow too closely
to be comfortably not close
enough?  You and distance
can have the honeymoon.  Salt
is on my lips, in the cracks
on my knuckles.

But this is a happy poem.
Merry Christmas!  For you,
your very own private slow motion
ocean.  Happy sailing.