The Winter Ferry Of Copenhagen Poem by Bernard Henrie

The year I came for you I was handsome
as the Prince of Wales, rain slicker flattened
on my torso, 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.

Hand gathered roses slip off vases onto
metal floors.

I think of your gelatine face surrounded
by the sapphire bezel of your hair,
haute horlogerie sold in Paris
at Patek Philippe & Co.