There is nothing left between us but
battered pillows and fallen punctuation.
We can find our way down the hallway,
made new, see where the poem
will take us. The truth is, we haven't
fought, but our pillows are wasted
and the punctuation I speak of
is the comma of your shoulder, the
pause before you murmur in the dark
of the cabin, "Two black bears," and
behind the orange curtain is Alaska,
glaciers so compact the only color left
is blue, and inside the curtain
is the honeymoon, hungry and awake.