The weather drops off on the Chesapeake <br />and shallow gray waves fall on gray waves <br />outside the window of our clapboard <br />where I live with you my water fowl, <br />my love shy husband sullen and colorless <br />two steps from the end of the continent. <br /> <br />The low, flat curves of the dredge hills <br />and sober, noisy roll of the bay, <br />the folded ankle socks on fishmongers, <br />my bra straps lowered for my husband <br />whose eyes roll beyond my shoulders <br />to the wet plants and pots stuck outside. <br /> <br />I burn a Marlboro in my fingers; <br />my husband opens a paint tin, <br />wets the blue brush, drips a green <br />across spaces of sea blank ardor. <br />I throw away relics of a life <br />that no longer exists. <br /> <br />I am resigned by age and temper <br />to a loveless lover; I imagine <br />a capzised swimmer far from shore <br />who does not turn toward home; <br />a sea bird snoring on the wind, <br />open mouthed for ambient rain <br />and a salt rinsed masque of seawater.<br /><br />Bernard Henrie<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/filling-in-the-blank-spaces-of-ardor/
