The Ferry At Compenhagen Poem by Bernard Henrie

The year I came for you I was handsome
as the Prince of Wales, a flat torso;
my rain slicker and rubber boots glistening
in storm water;

Are stands of Douglas fir
cut for Christmas trees? Is your grave
kept clean?

Two women, crisp as a ski trail spoon
asparagus simmering in a soup tureen;
snow breaks loose to fall in an echelon
of flakes.

I take a cigarette on the glassed
observation deck, Scandinavia opens
its hand, but I cannot tell Copenhagen
from Stockholm.

Thick coffee in the First Class lounge,
wilted delphiniums sag in waist-high
urns;

a cortege of birds flap over the bristle
marrow in our wake. New girls replace
your smile wearing floral winds lowered
off shoulders;

Far away the languid diesel engine,
the dying voice of a hallway steward,
a corridor to my berth lit with 40-watt
orange bulbs, a velvet call rope sways
as the ferry plies the Danish coast.

Hot house roses slip off vases onto
metal floors; rubaiyat hair at the face,
a bezel for a haute horlogerie watch
sold in Paris at Patek Philippe & Co.