Above the winter channel, a bright moon,
clouds on the move, a tug
pushing a barge, its nav lights plowing south
down the sound’s far side, maybe a deckhand
in a bunk below the wheelhouse
reading a book that could alter his course.
I duck inside, shivering from our top deck
and climb into a bed
that is already warm with her sleeping.
My booklight brightens the print,
a Russian peasant by a campfire where I left him
on the steppes under stars,
dreaming of tomorrow and the wedding,
good vodka, caviar, and dance.