Four Weeks

Watch the gypsy nod as

the doctor unravels the gauze,

palms up - reading into threading lines,

looks as though those hands are healing fine.

Clench the fingers, make a fist,

teeth gnaw lip as nails bite skin,

loosening up, they're slack again.

Splayed in this lap they look complete,

but the gypsy woman disagrees.

Her smile is clever and her eyes downcast,


she laughs,

the sound is thick

and she laughs,

whiskey warm

with consonance.


She's seen something in my hands,

-or perhaps it was the eyes -

she's seen something she'd recognize

from the radiant end of a hapless day,

or the foolish grin of a child's face.


She knows that those hands reach out

 to touch the moon at night

and attempt to cradle it close,

despite the fact that they are

burnt by collapsing stars

that fall out so fast and so far.


She knows that some days

in this foreign place,

are spent with smoke

through keyhole conversations,

fleeting fixtures and infinite rhythms,

down this slow moving river.

With palms up - reading into threading lines,

looks as though these hands are healing fine,

but the gypsy woman knows,

they'll be back in the sky by tonight.

The End

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