Filling In The Blank Spaces Of Ardor Poem by Bernard Henrie

The weather drops off on the Chesapeake
and shallow gray waves fall on gray waves
outside the window of our clapboard
where I live with you my water fowl,
my love shy husband sullen and colorless
two steps from the end of the continent.

The low, flat curves of the dredge hills
and sober, noisy roll of the bay,
the folded ankle socks on fishmongers,
my bra straps lowered for my husband
whose eyes roll beyond my shoulders
to the wet plants and pots stuck outside.

I burn a Marlboro in my fingers;
my husband opens a paint tin,
wets the blue brush, drips a green
across spaces of sea blank ardor.
I throw away relics of a life
that no longer exists.

I am resigned by age and temper
to a loveless lover; I imagine
a capzised swimmer far from shore
who does not turn toward home;
a sea bird snoring on the wind,
open mouthed for ambient rain
and a salt rinsed masque of seawater.