The Short Airfield At Corfu Poem by Bernard Henrie

Hot as the Indian Ocean,
the white sky burned
to seltzer and tonic water.
My airport portmanteau,
your unexplained absence
at the short airfield of Corfu.

A balcony of Greek descent.
The abbreviated clothes
and tanned skin like tobacco leaf.
Cold consommé on the balustrade,
cream bananas in a flowered dish;
a negligee blowing on the line.

Summer slow as the fourth inning
of a Dodger game.
The pulse of a rundown slug,
three second memory of a goldfish.

A tuxedo in the little casino,
a call to the states
and your voice trailing off.
A book and late cigarette.
The uneven surface of the light
asleep in the moon’s white bell.