beyond the further shore

Beleaguered I stand on the shores of Lake Menopause,
strange concerts in the night.

Rush hour now, at Coney Island, the giant wheel
of karma, of dharma, we've stood here before, weird light refracted
in her lenses.

White sands, black sands under the volcano, her Hindu touch
cured me once, but not again.

We were joined at the hip then, pommes frites and Gauloises
and crude vin rouge under the volcano -- the black goddess.

She brought me back, in one piece, from a thousand pieces,
weird light refracted in her lens.

Oh she touched me once, but not again.

What was I craving? desire to be beyond the shores,
go go go together, further than the shores of beyond.

It was November, a tropical time of birth,
suckling under Les Mamelles,
in the shadow of the cathedral.

We swam to the island.
We climbed to the cascade, the hot springs.

Under the volcano, it trembled. She trembled, but
I had courage then. I spoke up.
My synapses sparkled, oh yes, I was to be desired.

Now silent, astonished, I stand on the shores
of Lake Menopause.

No more to say, and the wheel goes round.
No more to say, fractalized in a thousand pieces,
reflected in her lens.