Gypsy Hand

Too brite days
midnights that refuse to
abide dark and secret
as empty phrases chant
to fairytale Moons
I tell myself
This is no ordinary room
This is no fleeting flittering life
This is a magical passageway
sparkling like mica, like miracles

Quiet traces
luminous impression
a trailing kite tail binds
silent whimpers, sojourning whispers,
tears shining behind mime smiles

Crone's gnarled fingers, playing
to spite agony
simulate touch
beyond ache
Too brite cell,
crouched scarred shadow
I cast silhouette of metamagic gypsy
hand offering

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