At Charon’s Beachhouse*
I knew it all by then I thought.
My I-ness had been inspected.
I had down pat the sacred
handshake and the secret chant.
Freudian, Jungian, Reikian, hey.
Couched for an hour bibbabbling away.
I knew about the cardboard cutouts
of the mentally maimed
that lined the motorcade route.
The melting madness of the common-
place on the sand of beach or desert
or desert beach-the frozen, water-
waves like so many shark’s teeth,
moving atop the factory’s motorized belt.
I had comprehended the unlikely
pounding of the frozen surf,
as drums in the near distance—
as in the start of some B-movie,
that actors wander through,
acting at acting.
I have been terrified before.
But I never expected to find you there-
eyes ringed- round, hair ragged and long
as straw-dazzling, and so very young.
And when you spoke to me alone,
when you spoke alone to me,
It took my heart away.
*Charon is the ferryman who takes the dead across the river Styx.