Nobody complains
about the rendering
of an elm limb.
They like to study
the outstretched arm, the
bark, worn and past-elegant.
After judging each wreath
hung on every door on Beacon Hill
on a scale of one to five stars,
we sit facing each other Christmas evening
in the bedroom in your Aunt Striddie’s
Empire chairs. Streetlights illumine
I capture this rectangle
of black and white,
as if it can be framed
by my Instamatic camera.
I watched the laundry
spinning in the dryer,
my black T-shirts dance,
kiss your boxers on the lips.