I was a little boy when I met the Blonde;
I crossed the backs of crocodiles
across black water, just beyond
a maze of vaults and sunken isles.
She waited on the other side alone,
beyond a bridge, within a narrow cell—
hay scattered; naked among the stones,
hair drawn down, her face a polished shell,
her skin a paled aubergine. I did not move,
the water slackening near the spars.
Step by step, her cell came into view,
until I stood before the bars.
I held the key. It answered to my hand.
I turned it once, and entered what I am.