The Charon Cycle:
the floating bridge
flying on the night
of the bloody show
(the corona, brilliant
flesh around a dark crowning
and the lights
blazing, fat old Saturn
dancing attendance)
high tide swelling
the matron into
a gibbous mask,
water washing as the
lights string along the 520,
necklacing the Sound.
the boat rocks, dark
and solitary among the lilies
by the sun-driven sculpture
ready to slip down
the dark throat of the world;
the centuries in tow creak
complaining of gout.
I look down, see a flash
and a dive, as if a star
has taken duck-shape
or a nymph has stepped
smiling through the cattails,
shining midst the muddy dark.
I can see the boatman--he never
grows small, turning to
the nymph flashing, the necklace
drawn tight against the watery
and salt throat, breaking
the surface with his pole
and grieving.