The Cave of Hypnos: Early Poems

Gypsy

His eye is slow and sensuous;
it lingers on your breast.

His fingers weave the wiry thread;
the beard flows to his chest.

Gypsy, lost in plate glass skies,
will I pass the test?

Gypsy, fondling inner lies,
will I here find rest?

His arm slips slowly round you;
the tree grips the earth.

His gaze cuts through your sighs.

He knows you will forever thirst.

Gypsy?

Yes.

Gypsy?

Yes.

Gypsy?

Yes.